Aloofness3 is the note of such a garden. It is no piece of pompous4 mosaic-work spread before the front windows of a stock-broker’s villa5, a conventional color scheme to impress the public. The true garden has no studied ostentation6. It is a charm apart, a quiet corner of life smelling of lavender, built for old books, and memories that have the mystery of hills touched by the dawn. You will find the monk’s-hood growing in tall campaniles ringing a note of blue; columbines, fountains of gold and red; great tumbling rose-trees like the foam7 of the sea; stocks all a-bloom; pansies like antique enamel-work; clove-pinks breathing up incense8 to meet the wind-blown fragrance of elder-trees in flower. You may hear birds singing as though in the wild deeps of a haunted wood whose trees part the sunset into panels of living fire.
Mary of the plain face and the loyal heart had opened the green front door to a big man, whose broad shoulders seemed fit to bear the troubles of the whole town. He had asked for Catherine and her husband.
“They are in the garden, sir.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, only Master Jack9.”
Canon Stensly bowed his iron-gray head under the Oriental curtain that screened the passage leading from the hall to the garden.
“Thanks; I know the way.”
The Rector of St. Antonia’s came out into the sunlight, and stood looking about him for an instant with the air of a man whose eyes were always open to what was admirable in life. A thrush had perched itself on the pinnacle10 of a yew11, and was singing his vesper-song with the broad west for an altar of splendid gold. The chiming of the hour rang from St. Antonia’s steeple half hid by the green mist of its elms. A few trails of smoke rising from red-brick chimney-stacks alone betrayed the presence of a town.
To an old college-man such an evening brought back memories of sunny courts, cloisters12, and sleek13 lawns, the ringing of bells towards sunset, the dark swirl14 of a river under the yawn of bridges that linked gardens to gardens beneath the benisons of mighty15 trees. Yet the light on Canon Stensly’s face was not wholly a placid16 light. It was as though he came as a messenger from the restless, bickering17 outer world, a friend whom friendship freighted with words not easy to be said.
A glimmer18 of white under an old cherry-tree showed where Catherine sat reading, with the boy Jack prone19 on the grass, the Swiss Family Robinson under his chin. Murchison was lying back in a deck-chair, watching the smoke from his pipe amid the foliage20 overhead.
Master Jack, rolling from elbow to elbow, as he thrilled over the passage of the “tub-boat” from the wreck21, caught sight of the Canon crossing the lawn. Catherine was warned by a tug22 at her skirts, and a very audible stage-aside.
“Look out, here’s old Canon Stensly—”
“S-sh, Jack.”
“Should like to see him afloat in a tub-boat. Take a big—”
A tweak of the ear nipped the boy’s reflection in the bud. His father gave him a significant push in the direction of the fruit garden.
“See if there are any strawberries ripe.”
“I’ve looked twice, dad.”
“Oh, no doubt. Go and look again.”
Canon Stensly’s big fist had closed on Catherine’s fingers. He was not the conventional figure, the portly, smiling cleric, the man of the world with a benignant yet self-sufficient air. Like many big men, silent and peculiarly sensitive, his quiet manner suggested a diffidence anomalous23 in a man of six feet two. To correct the impression one had but to look at the steady blue of the eye, the firm yet sympathetic mouth, the stanchness of the chin. It is a fallacy that lives perennially24, the belief that a confident face, an aggressive manner, and much facility of speech necessarily mark the man of power.
A courtly person would have remarked on the beauty of the evening, and discovered something in the garden to praise. Canon Stensly was not a man given to pleasant commonplaces. He said nothing, and sat down.
Murchison handed him his cigar-case.
“Thanks, not before dinner.”
His habit of silence, the silence of a man who spoke25 only when he had something definite to say, gave him, to strangers, an expression of reserve. Canon Stensly invariably made talkative men feel uncomfortable. It was otherwise with people who had learned to know the nature of his sincerity26.
“Hallo, what literature have we here?”
He picked up Jack’s discarded book, and turned over the pages as though the illustrations brought back recollections of his own youth. As a boy he had been the most irrepressible young mischief-monger, a youngster whom Elisha would have bequeathed to the bear’s claws.
“Ever a member of the Robinson family, Mrs. Murchison?”
Catherine caught a suspicious side glint in his eye.
“I suppose all children read the book.”
“I wonder how much of the moralizing you remember?”
“Very little, I’m afraid.”
“Nor do I. Children demand life—not moralizing upon life,” and the Canon scrutinized27 a picture portraying28 the harpooning29 of a turtle, as though he had gloated over that picture many times as a boy.
Catherine had caught a glimpse of Mary’s white apron30 signalling for help in some domestic problem. She was glad of the excuse to leave the two men together. The sense of a woman is never more in evidence than when she surrenders her husband to a friend.
“Can you spare me half an hour for a talk?”
“I am not overburdened with work—yet.”
“Oh, it will come.”
He turned over the pages deliberately31, glancing at each picture.
“Your wife looks well.”
“Yes, in spite of everything.”
“A matter of heart and pluck.”
“She has the courage of a Cordelia.”
Canon Stensly put the book down upon the grass. The two men were silent awhile; Murchison lying back in his chair, smoking; the churchman leaning forward a little with arms folded, his massive face set rather sternly in the repose32 of thought.
“There is something I want to talk to you about.”
Murchison turned his head, but did not move his body.
“Yes?”
“Don’t set me down as a busybody. I think I have a duty to you as a friend. It is a matter of justice.”
The Canon’s virtues33 were of the practical, workman-like order. He was not an eloquent34 man in the oratorical35 sense, having far too straightforward36 and sincere a personality to wax hysterical37 for the benefit of a church full of women. But he was a man who was listened to by men.
Murchison turned half-restlessly in his chair.
“With reference to the old scandal?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Something unpleasant, of course.”
“Things that are put about behind one’s back are generally unpleasant. It was my wife who discovered the report. Women hear more lies than we do, you know.”
“As a rule.”
“I decided38 that it was only fair that you should know, since slandered39 people are generally the last to hear of their own invented sins.”
“Thanks. I appreciate honesty.”
Canon Stensly sat motionless a moment, staring at the house. Then he rose up leisurely40 from his chair, reached for one of the branches of the cherry-tree, drew it down and examined the forming fruit.
“They say that you used to drink.”
Murchison remained like an Egyptian Memnon looking towards Thebes. The churchman talked on.
“I have heard the same thing said about one or two of my dearest friends. Vile41 exaggerations of some explainable incident. The report originated from a certain lady who resides over against my church. Her husband is a professional man.”
He pulled down a second bough42, and brushed the young fruit with his fingers to see whether it was set or not. The silence had something of the tension of expense. Murchison knew that this old friend was waiting for a denial.
“That’s quite true; I drank—at one time.”
A man of less ballast and less unselfishness would have rounded on the speaker, perhaps with an affected43 incredulity that would have embittered44 the consciousness of the confession45. Canon Stensly did nothing so insignificant46. He let the branch of the cherry-tree slip slowly through his fingers, put his hands in his pockets, and walked aside three paces as though to examine the tree at another angle.
“Tell me about it.”
There was a pause of a few seconds.
“My father drank; poor old dad! I’m not trying to shelve the affair by putting it on his shoulders. My father and my grandfather both died of drink. My wife knows. She did not know when we were married. That was wrong. If ever a man owed anything to the love of a good woman, I am that man.”
Canon Stensly returned to his chair. His face bore the impress of deep thought. He had the air of a man ready to help in the bearing of a brother’s burden, not with any bombast47 and display, but as though it were as natural an action as holding out a hand.
“It can’t have been very serious,” he said.
Murchison set his teeth.
“A sort of hell while it lasted, a tempting48 of the devil; not often; perhaps the worse for that.”
“Ah, I can understand.”
“It was when I was overworked.”
“Jaded.”
“The wife was something better than a ministering angel, she was a brave woman. She fought for me. We should have won—without that scandal, but for a mad piece of folly49 I took to be heroism50.”
The churchman extended a large hand.
“I’ll smoke after all,” he said.
“Do.”
Murchison opened his cigar-case. Canon Stensly was as deliberate as a man wholly at his ease. There was not a tremor51 as he held the lighted match.
“Do you know, Murchison, I appreciate this—deeply?”
He returned the match-box.
“It puts you in a new light to me, a finer light, with that rare wife of yours.”
Murchison was refilling his pipe, lines of thought crossing his forehead.
“When my child died—”
“Yes—”
“I seemed to lose part of myself. I had crushed the curse then. I don’t know how to explain the psychology52 of the affair, but when she died, the other thing died also.”
Canon Stensly nodded.
“It was what we call dipsomania. I never touched alcohol for years. I had been a fool as a student. At my worst, I only had the crave53 now and again.”
“And you are sure—”
“Sure that that curse killed my child, indirectly54. Is it strange that her death should have killed the curse?”
“As I trust in God, no.”
The thrush was singing again on the yew-tree, another thrush answering it from a distant garden. Canon Stensly lay back in his chair and smiled.
“Stay here,” he said, quietly.
“In Roxton?”
“Yes. You have friends. Trust them. There is a greater sense of justice in this world than most cynics allow. I never knew man fight a good fight, a clean up-hill fight, and lose in the end.”
They were smoking peacefully under the cherry-tree when Catherine returned. She had no suspicion of what had passed, for no storm spirit had left its torn clouds in the summer air. Her husband’s face was peculiarly calm and placid.
“Where’s that boy of yours, Mrs. Murchison?”
“Jack?”
“Yes.”
“He was hunting the strawberry-beds half an hour ago.”
“Tell him,” and the Canon chuckled55, “tell him I am not too big yet—for a tub.”
“Oh, Canon Stensly—”
“My dear Mrs. Murchison, I said many a truer thing when I was a boy. Children strike home. To have his vanity chastened, let a man listen to children.”
The big man with the massive head and the broad British chest had gone. Husband and wife were sitting alone under the cherry-tree.
“You told him—all?”
“All, Kate.”
“And it was Betty? That woman! May she never have to bear what we have borne!”
Murchison was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his chin upon his fists.
“Well—they know the worst—at last,” he said, grimly. “We can clear for action. That’s a grand man, Kate. I shall stay and fight—fight as he would were he in my place.”
She stretched out a hand and let it rest upon his shoulder.
“You are what I would have you be, brave. Our chance will come.”
“God grant it.”
“You shall show these people what manner of man you are.”
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1
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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3
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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6
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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9
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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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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13
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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14
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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15
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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18
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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perennially
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| adv.经常出现地；长期地；持久地；永久地 | |
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25
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
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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27
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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portraying
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| v.画像( portray的现在分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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29
harpooning
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| v.鱼镖，鱼叉( harpoon的现在分词 ) | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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31
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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32
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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33
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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oratorical
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| adj.演说的，雄辩的 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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39
slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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42
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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46
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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bombast
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| n.高调，夸大之辞 | |
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48
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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49
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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50
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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51
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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52
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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53
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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54
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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55
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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