He who had been ‘Cuffs2’ Cherrell (for so the name Charwell is pronounced) to his cronies at Harrow and Cambridge in the ‘sixties, the Reverend Cuthbert Cherrell in his two London parishes, Canon Cherrell in the days of his efflorescence as a preacher, and Cuthbert Porthminster for the last eighteen years, had never married. For eighty-two years he had lived and for fifty-five, having been ordained3 rather late, had represented God upon certain portions of the earth. This and the control of his normal instincts since the age of twenty-six had given to his face a repressed dignity which the approach of death did not disturb. He awaited it almost quizzically, judging from the twist of his eyebrow5 and the tone in which he said so faintly to his nurse:
“You will get a good sleep tomorrow, nurse. I shall be punctual, no robes to put on.”
The best wearer of robes in the whole episcopacy, the most distinguished6 in face and figure, maintaining to the end the dandyism which had procured7 him the nickname ‘Cuffs,’ lay quite still, his grey hair brushed and his face like ivory. He had been a bishop so long that no one knew now what he thought about death, or indeed about anything, except the prayer book, any change in which he had deprecated with determination. In one never remarkable8 for expressing his feelings the ceremony of life had overlaid the natural reticence9, as embroidery10 and jewels will disguise the foundation stuff of vestment.
He lay in a room with mullion windows, an ascetic11 room in a sixteenth-century house, close to the Cathedral, whose scent12 of age was tempered but imperfectly by the September air coming in. Some zinnias in an old vase on the window-sill made the only splash of colour, and it was noticed by the nurse that his eyes scarcely left it, except to dose from time to time. About six o’clock they informed him that all the family of his long-dead elder brother had arrived.
“Ah! See that they are comfortable. I should like to see Adrian.”
When an hour later he opened his eyes again, they fell on his nephew Adrian seated at the foot of the bed. For some minutes he contemplated13 the lean and wrinkled brownness of a thin bearded face, topped with grizzling hair, with a sort of faint astonishment14, as though finding his nephew older than he had expected. Then, with lifted eyebrows15 and the same just quizzical tone in his faint voice, he said:
“My dear Adrian! Good of you! Would you mind coming closer? Ah! I haven’t much strength, but what I have I wanted you to have the benefit of; or perhaps, as you may think, the reverse. I must speak to the point or not at all. You are not a Churchman, so what I have to say I will put in the words of a man of the world, which once I was myself, perhaps have always been. I have heard that you have an affection, or may I say infatuation, for a lady who is not in a position to marry you — is that so?”
The face of his nephew, kindly16 and wrinkled, was gentle with an expression of concern.
“It is, Uncle Cuthbert. I am sorry if it troubles you.”
“A mutual17 affection?”
His nephew shrugged18.
“My dear Adrian, the world has changed in its judgments19 since my young days, but there is still a halo around marriage. That, however, is a matter for your conscience and is not my point. Give me a little water.”
When he had drunk from the glass held out, he went on more feebly:
“Since your father died I have been somewhat in loco parentis to you all, and the chief repository, I suppose, of such traditions as attach to our name. I wanted to say to you that our name goes back very far and very honourably20. A certain inherited sense of duty is all that is left to old families now; what is sometimes excused to a young man is not excused to those of mature age and a certain position like your own. I should be sorry to be leaving this life knowing that our name was likely to be taken in vain by the Press, or bandied about. Forgive me for intruding21 on your privacy, and let me now say good-bye to you all. It will be less painful if you will give the others my blessing22 for what it is worth — very little, I’m afraid. Good-bye, my dear Adrian, good-bye!”
The voice dropped to a whisper. The speaker closed his eyes, and Adrian, after standing23 a minute looking down at the carved waxen face, stole, tall and a little stooping, to the door, opened it gently and was gone.
The nurse came back. The Bishop’s lips moved and his eyebrows twitched24 now and then, but he spoke25 only once:
“I shall be glad if you will kindly see that my neck is straight, and my teeth in place. Forgive these details, but I do not wish to offend the sight . . .”
Adrian went down to the long panelled room where the family was waiting.
“Sinking. He sent his blessing to you all.”
Sir Conway cleared his throat. Hilary pressed Adrian’s arm. Lionel went to the window. Emily Mont took out a tiny handkerchief and passed her other hand into Sir Lawrence’s. Wilmet alone spoke:
“How does he look, Adrian?”
“Like the ghost of a warrior26 on his shield.”
Again Sir Conway cleared his throat.
“Fine old boy!” said Sir Lawrence, softly.
“Ah!” said Adrian.
They remained, silently sitting and standing in the compulsory27 discomfort28 of a house where death is visiting. Tea was brought in, but, as if by tacit agreement, no one touched it. And, suddenly, the bell tolled29. The seven in that room looked up. At one blank spot in the air their glances met and crossed, as though fixed30 on something there and yet not there.
A voice from the doorway31 said:
“Now please, if you wish to see him.”
Sir Conway, the eldest32, followed the bishop’s chaplain; the others followed Sir Conway.
In his narrow bed jutting33 from the centre of the wall opposite the mullion windows the bishop lay, white and straight and narrow, with just the added dignity of death. He graced his last state even more than he had graced existence. None of those present, not even his chaplain, who made the eighth spectator, knew whether Cuthbert Porthminster had really had faith, except in that temporal dignity of the Church which he had so faithfully served. They looked at him now with all the different feelings death produces in varying temperaments34, and with only one feeling in common, aesthetic35 pleasure at the sight of such memorable36 dignity,
Conway — General Sir Conway Cherrell — had seen much death. He stood with his hands crossed before him, as if once more at Sandhurst in the old-time attitude of ‘stand at ease.’ His face was thin-templed and ascetic, for a soldier’s; the darkened furrowed37 cheeks ran from wide cheek-bones to the point of a firm chin, the dark eyes were steady, the nose and lips thin; he wore a little close grizzly38 dark moustache — his face was perhaps the stillest of the eight faces, the face of the taller Adrian beside him, the least still. Sir Lawrence Mont had his arm through that of Emily his wife, the expression on his thin twisting countenance39 was as of one saying: “A very beautiful performance — don’t cry, my dear.”
The faces of Hilary and Lionel, one on each side of Wilmet, a seamed race and a smooth face, both long and thin and decisive, wore a sort of sorry scepticism, as if expecting those eyes to open. Wilmet had flushed deep pink; her lips were pursed. She was a tall thin woman. The chaplain stood with bent40 head, moving his lips as though telling over internal beads41. They stayed thus perhaps three minutes, then as it were with a single indrawn breath filed to the door. They went each to the room assigned.
They met again at dinner, thinking and speaking once more in terms of life. Uncle Cuthbert, except as a family figure-head, had never been very near to any one of them. The question whether he was to be buried with his fathers at Condaford or here in the Cathedral was debated. Probably his Will would decide. All but the General and Lionel, who were the executors, returned to London the same evening.
The two brothers, having read through the Will, which was short, for there was nothing much to leave, sat on in the library, silent, till the General said:
“I want to consult you, Lionel. It’s about my boy, Hubert. Did you read that attack made on him in the House before it rose?”
Lionel, sparing of words, and now on the eve of a Judgeship, nodded.
“I saw there was a question asked, but I don’t know Hubert’s version of the affair.”
“I can give it you. The whole thing is damnable. The boy’s got a temper, of course, but he’s straight as a die. What he says you can rely on. And all I can say is that if I’d been in his place, I should probably have done the same.”
Lionel nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Well, as you know, he went straight from Harrow into the War, and had one year in the R.A.F. under age, got wounded, went back and stayed on in the army after the war. He was out in Mespot, then went on to Egypt and India. He got malaria42 badly, and last October had a year’s sick leave given him, which will be up on October first. He was recommended for a long voyage. He got leave for it and went out through the Panama Canal to Lima. There he met that American professor, Hallorsen, who came over here some time ago and gave some lectures, it appears, about some queer remains43 in Bolivia; he was going to take an expedition there. This expedition was just starting when Hubert got to Lima, and Hallorsen wanted a transport officer. Hubert was fit enough after his voyage and jumped at the chance. He can’t bear idleness. Hallorsen took him on; that was in December last. After a bit Hallorsen left him in charge of his base camp with a lot of half-caste Indian mule44 men. Hubert was the only white man, and he got fever badly. Some of those half-caste Indian fellows are devils, according to his account; no sense of discipline and perfect brutes45 with animals. Hubert got wrong with them — he’s a hot-tempered chap, as I told you, and, as it happens, particularly fond of animals. The half-castes got more and more out of hand, till finally one of them, whom he’d had to have flogged for ill-treating mules46 and who was stirring up mutiny, attacked him with a knife. Luckily Hubert had his revolver handy and shot him dead. And on that the whole blessed lot of them, except three, cleared out, taking the mules with them. Mind you, he’d been left there alone for nearly three months without support or news of any kind from Hallorsen. Well, he hung on somehow, half dead, with his remaining men. At last Hallorsen came back, and instead of trying to understand his difficulties, pitched into him. Hubert wouldn’t stand for it; gave him as good as he got, and left. He came straight home, and is down with us at Condaford. He’s lost the fever, luckily, but he’s pretty well worn out, even now. And now that fellow Hallorsen has attacked him in his book; practically thrown the blame of failure on him, implies he was tyrannical and no good at handling men, calls him a hot-tempered aristocrat47 — all that bunkum that goes down these days. Well, some Service member got hold of this and asked that question about it in Parliament. One expects Socialists48 to make themselves unpleasant, but when it comes to a Service member alluding49 to conduct unbecoming to a British officer, it’s another matter altogether. Hallorsen’s in the States. There’s nobody to bring an action against: besides, Hubert could get no witnesses. It looks to me as if the thing has cut right across his career.”
Lionel Cherrell’s long face lengthened50.
“Has he tried Headquarters?”
“Yes, he went up on Wednesday. They were chilly51. Any popular gup about high-handedness scares them nowadays. I daresay they’d come round if no more were said, but how’s that possible? He’s been publicly criticised in that book, and practically accused in Parliament of violent conduct unbecoming to an officer and gentleman. He can’t sit down under that; and yet — what can he do?”
Lionel drew deeply at his pipe.
“D’you know,” he said, “I think he’d better take no notice.”
The General clenched52 his fist. “Damn it, Lionel, I don’t see that!”
“But he admits the shooting and the flogging. The public has no imagination, Con4 — they’ll never see his side of the thing. All they’ll swallow is that on a civilian53 expedition he shot one man and flogged others. You can’t expect them to understand the conditions or the pressure there was.”
“Then you seriously advise him to take it lying down?”
“As a man, no; as a man of the world, yes.”
“Good Lord! What’s England coming to? I wonder what old Uncle Cuffs would have said? He thought a lot of our name.”
“So do I. But how is Hubert to get even with them?”
The General was silent for a little while and then said:
“This charge is a slur54 on the Service, and yet his hands seem tied. If he handed in his Commission he could stand up to it, but his whole heart’s in the Army. It’s a bad business. By the way, Lawrence has been talking to me about Adrian. Diana Ferse was Diana Montjoy, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, second cousin to Lawrence — very pretty woman, Con. Ever see her?”
“As a girl, yes. What’s her position now, then?”
“Married widow — two children, and a husband in a Mental Home.”
“That’s lively. Incurable55?”
Lionel nodded. “They say so. But of course, you never know.”
“Good Lord!”
“That’s just about it. She’s poor and Adrian’s poorer; it’s a very old affection on Adrian’s part, dates from before her marriage. If he does anything foolish, he’ll lose his curatorship.”
“Go off with her, you mean? Why, he must be fifty!”
“No fool like an — She’s an attractive creature. Those Montjoys are celebrated56 for their charm. Would he listen to you, Con?”
The General shook his head.
“More likely to Hilary.”
“Poor old Adrian — one of the best men on earth. I’ll talk to Hilary, but his hands are always full.”
The General rose. “I’m going to bed. We don’t smell of age at the Grange like this place — though the Grange is older.”
“Too much original wood here. Good-night, old man.”
The brothers shook hands, and, grasping each a candle, sought their rooms.
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1
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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3
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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7
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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8
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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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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13
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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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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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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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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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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26
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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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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tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grizzly
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| adj.略为灰色的，呈灰色的；n.灰色大熊 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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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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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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malaria
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| n.疟疾 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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44
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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45
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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46
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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49
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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50
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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52
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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53
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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55
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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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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