Tom had saddled the horse, and at the first summons led him out; and Harry1, with a nod and a grin, for he was more prodigal2 of his smiles than of his shillings, took the bridle3 from his fingers, and with Charlie by his side, walked forth4 silently from the yard gate, upon that dark and rude track which followed for some distance the precipitous edge of the ravine, which opens upon the deeper glen of Carwell.
Very dark was this narrow road, overhung and crossed by towering trees, through whose boughs5 only here and there an angular gleam, or minute mottling of moonlight hovered6 and floated on the white and stony7 road, with the uneasy motion of the branches, like little flights of quivering wings.
There was a silence corresponding with this darkness. The clank of the horse’s hoof8, and their own more muffled9 tread were the only sounds that mingled10 with the sigh and rustle11 of the boughs above them. The one was expecting, the other meditating12, no very pleasant topic, and it was not the business of either to begin, for a little.
They were not walking fast. The horse seemed to feel that the human wayfarers13 were in a sauntering mood, and fell accommodatingly into a lounging gait like theirs.
If there were eyes there constructed to see in the dark, they would have seen two countenances15, one sincere, the other adjusted to that sort of sham16 sympathy and regret, which Hogarth, with all his delicacy17 and power, portrays18 in the paternal19 alderman who figures in the last picture of “Marriage a la Mode.”
There was much anxiety in Charles’ face, and a certain brooding shame and constraint20 which would have accounted for his silence. In that jolly dog, Harry, was discoverable, as I have said, quite another light and form of countenance14. There was a face that seemed to have discharged a smile, that still would not quite go. The eyelids21 drooped22, the eyebrows23 raised, a simulated condolence, such as we all have seen.
In our moral reviews of ourselves we practise optical delusions24 even upon our own self-scrutiny, and paint and mask our motives25, and fill our ears with excuses and with down-right lies. So inveterate26 is the habit of deceiving, and even in the dark we form our features by hypocrisy27, and scarcely know all this.
“Here’s the turn at last to Cressley Common; there’s no talking comfortably among these trees; it’s so dark, anyone might be at your elbow and you know nothing about it—and so the old man is very angry.”
“Never saw a fellow so riled,” answered Harry; “you know what he is when he is riled, and I never saw him so angry before. If he knew I was here—but you’ll take care of me?”
“It’s very kind of you, old fellow; I won’t forget it, indeed I won’t, but I ought to have thought twice: I ought not to have brought poor Alice into this fix; for damn me, if I know how we are to get on.”
“Well, you know, it’s only just a pinch, an ugly corner, and you are all right—it can’t last.”
“It may last ten years, or twenty for that matter,” said Charlie. “I was a fool to sell out. I don’t know what we are to do; do you?”
“You’re too down in the mouth; can’t ye wait and see? there’s nothing yet, and it won’t cost ye much carrying on down here.”
“Do you think, Harry, it would be well to take up John Wauling’s farm, and try whether I could not make something of it in my own hands?” asked Charles.
Harry shook his head.
“You don’t?” said Charlie.
“Well, no, I don’t; you’d never make the rent of it,” answered Harry; “besides, if you begin upsetting things here, the people will begin to talk, and that would not answer; you’ll need to be damned quiet.”
There was here a pause, and they walked on in silence until the thick shadows of the trees began to break a little before them, and the woods grew more scattered28; whole trees were shadowed in distinct outline, and the wide common of Cressley, with its furze and fern, and broad undulations, stretched mistily29 before them.
“About money—you know, Charlie, there’s money enough at present and no debts to signify; I mean, if you don’t make them you needn’t. You and Alice, with the house and garden, can get along on a trifle. The tenants30 give you three hundred a year, and you can manage with two.”
“Two hundred a year!” exclaimed Charlie, opening his eyes.
“Ay, two hundred a year!—that girl don’t eat sixpenn’orth in a day” said Harry.
“Alice is the best little thing in the world, and will look after everything, I know; but there are other things beside dinner and breakfast,” said Charles, who did not care to hear his wife called “that girl.”
“Needs must when the Devil drives, my boy! you’ll want a hundred every year for contingencies,” said Harry.
“Well, I suppose so,” Charles winced31, “and all the more need for a few more hundreds; for I don’t see how anyone could manage to exist on such a pittance32.”
“You’ll have to contrive33 though, my lad, unless they’ll manage a post obit for you,” said Harry.
“There is some trouble about that, and people are such damned screws,” said Charles, with a darkening face.
“Al’ays was and ever will be,” said Harry, with a laugh.
“And it’s all very fine talking of a hundred a year but you know and know that won’t do, and never did,” exclaimed Charles, breaking forth bitterly, and then looking hurriedly over his shoulder.
“Upon, my soul, Charlie, I don’t know a curse about it,” answered Harry, good-humouredly; “but if it won’t do, it won’t, that’s certain.”
“Quite certain,” said Charles, and sighed very heavily; and again there was a little silence.
“I wish I was as sharp a fellow as you are, Harry,” said Charles, regretfully.
“Do you really think I’m a sharp chap—do you though? I al’ays took myself for a bit of a muff, except about cattle—I did, upon my soul,” said Harry, with an innocent laugh.
“You are a long way a cleverer fellow than I am, and you are not half so lazy; and tell me what you’d do if you were in my situation?”
“What would I do if I was in your place?” said Harry, looking up at the stars, and whistling low for a minute.
“Well, I couldn’t tell you offhand34; ’twould puzzle a better man’s head for a bit to answer that question—only I can tell you one thing, I’d never agone into that situation, as ye call it, at no price; ’twouldn’t ’av answered me by no chance. But don’t you be putting your finger in your eye yet a bit; there’s nothing to cry about now that I knows of; time enough to hang your mouth yet, only I thought I might as well come over and tell you.”
“I knew, Harry, there was something to tell,” said Charles.
“Not over much—only a trifle when all’s told,” answered Harry; “but you are right, for it was that brought me over here. I was in Lon’on last week, and I looked in at the place at Hoxton, and found just the usual thing, and came away pretty much as wise as I went in.”
“Not more reasonable?” asked Charles.
“Not a bit,” said Harry.
“Tell me what you said,” asked Charles.
“Just what we agreed,” he answered.
“Well, there was nothing in that that was not kind and conciliatory, and common sense—was there?” pleaded Charles.
“It did not so seem to strike the plenipotentiary,” said Harry.
“You seem to think it very pleasant,” said Charles.
“I wish it was pleasanter,” said Harry; “but pleasant or no, I must tell my story straight. I ran in in a hurry, you know, as if I only wanted to pay over the twenty pounds—you mind.”
“Ay,” said Charles, “I wish to heaven I had it back again.”
“Well, I don’t think it made much difference in the matter of love and liking35, I’ll not deny; but I looked round, and I swore I wondered anyone would live in such a place when there were so many nice places where money would go three times as far in foreign countries; and I wondered you did not think of it, and take more interest yourself, and upon that I could see the old soger was thinking of fifty things, suspecting poor me of foul36 play among the number; and I was afraid for a minute I was going to have half a dozen claws in my smeller; but I turned it off, and I coaxed37 and wheedled38 a bit. You’d a laughed yourself black, till I had us both a purring like a pair of old maid’s cats.”
“I tell you what, Harry, there’s madness there—literal madness,” said Charles, grasping his arm as he stopped and turned towards him, so that Harry had to come also to a standstill. “Don’t you know it—as mad as Bedlam39? Just think !”
Harry laughed.
“Mad enough, by jingo,” said he.
“But don’t you think so—actually mad?” repeated Charles.
“Well, it is near the word, maybe, but I would not say quite mad—worse than mad, I dare say, by chalks; but I wouldn’t place the old soger there,” said Harry.
“Where?” said Charles.
“I mean exactly among the mad ’uns. No, I wouldn’t say mad, but as vicious—and worse, mayhap.”
“It does not matter much what we think, either of us; but I know what another fellow would have done long ago, but I could not bring myself to do that. I have thought it over often, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t!”
“Well, then, it ain’t no great consequence,” said Harry, and he tightened40 his saddle-girth a hole or two—“no great consequence; but I couldn’t a’ put a finger to that—mind; for I think the upperworks is as sound as any, only there’s many a devil beside mad ’uns. I give it in to you there.”
“And what do you advise me to do?—this sort of thing is dreadful,” said Charles.
“I was going to say, I think the best thing to be done is just to leave all that business, d’ye mind, to me.”
Harry mounted, and leaning on his knee, he said,—
“I think I have a knack41, if you leave it to me. Old Pipeclay doesn’t think I have any reason to play false.”
“Rather the contrary,” said Charles, who was attentively42 listening.
“No interest at all,” pursued Harry, turning his eyes towards the distant knoll43 of Torston, and going on without minding Charles’ suggestion,—
“Look, now, that beast’ll follow my hand as sweet as sugary-candy, when you’d have nothing but bolting and baulking, and rearin’, or worse. There’s plenty o’ them little French towns or German—and don’t you be botherin’ your head about it; only do just as I tell ye, and I’ll take all in hands.”
“You’re an awfully44 good fellow, Harry; for, upon my soul, I was at my wit’s end almost; having no one to talk to, and not knowing what anyone might be thinking of; and I feel safe in your hands, Harry, for I think you understand that sort of work so much better than I do—you understand people so much better—and I never was good at managing anyone, or anything for that matter; and—and when will business bring you to town again?”
“Three weeks or so, I wouldn’t wonder,” said Harry.
“And I know, Harry, you won’t forget me. I’m afraid to write to you almost; but if you’d think of any place we could meet and have a talk, I’d be ever so glad. You have no idea how fidgety and miserable45 a fellow grows that doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“Ay, to be sure; well, I’ve no objection. My book’s made for ten days or so—a lot of places to go to—but I’ll be coming round again, and I’ll tip you a stave.”
“That’s a good fellow; I know you won’t forget me,” said Charles, placing his hand on his brother’s arm.
“No—of course. Good-night, and take care of yourself, and give my love to Ally.”
“And—and Harry?”
“Well?” answered Harry, backing his restless horse a little bit.
“I believe that’s all.”
“Good-night, then.”
“Good-night,” echoed Charles.
Harry touched his hat with a smile, and was away the next moment, flying at a ringing trot46 over the narrow unfenced road that traverses the common, and dwindling47 in the distant moonlight.
“There he goes—light of heart; nothing to trouble him—life a holiday—the world a toy.”
He walked a little bit slowly in the direction of the disappearing horseman, and paused again, and watched him moodily48 till he was fairly out of sight.
“I hope he won’t forget; he’s always so busy about those stupid horses—a lot of money he makes, I dare say. I wish I knew something about them. I must beat about for some way of turning a penny. Poor little Alice! I hope I have not made a mull of it? I’ll save every way I can—of course that’s due to her; but when you come to think of it, and go over it all, there’s very little you can give up. You can lay down your horses, if you have them, except one. You must have one in a place like this—you’d run a risk of starving, or never getting your letters, or dying for want of the doctor. And—I won’t drink wine; brandy, or Old Tom does just as well, and I’ll give up smoking totally. A fellow must make sacrifices. I’ll just work through this one box slowly, and order no more; it’s all a habit, and I’ll give it up.”
So he took a cigar from his case, and lighted it.
“I’ll not spend another pound on them, and the sooner these are out the better.”
He sauntered slowly away with his hands in his pockets to a little eminence49 about a hundred yards to the right, and mounted it, and looked all around, smoking. I don’t think he saw much of that extensive view; but you would have fancied him an artist in search of the picturesque50.
His head was full of ideas of selling Carwell Grange; but he was not quite sure that he had power, and did not half like asking his attorney, to whom he already owed something. He thought how snug51 and pleasant they might be comparatively in one of those quaint52 little toy towns in Germany, where dull human nature bursts its cerements, and floats and flutters away into a butterfly life of gold and colour—where the punter and the croupier assist at the worship of the brilliant and fickle53 goddess, and bands play sweetly, and people ain’t buried alive in deserts and forests among dogs and “chaw-bacons”—where little Alice would be all wonder and delight. Was it quite fair to bring her down here, to immure54 her in the mouldering55 cloister56 of Carwell Grange?
He had begun now to reenter the wooded ascent57 toward that melancholy58 mansion59; his cigar was burnt out, and he said, looking toward his home through the darkness,—
“Poor little Alice! she does love me, I think—and that’s something.”
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收听单词发音
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1
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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10
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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12
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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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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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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portrays
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| v.画像( portray的第三人称单数 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop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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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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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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mistily
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| adv.有雾地，朦胧地，不清楚地 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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38
wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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43
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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44
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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45
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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46
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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47
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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48
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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49
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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50
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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51
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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52
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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53
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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54
immure
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| v.囚禁，幽禁 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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56
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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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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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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