Our difficulty rose from the fact that Lilith did not appear ever to have been married. The fierce man was not her husband. So far as we could discover from the gipsy children she had never had a husband. Then she couldn’t have had a honeymoon1: and, if she had never had a honeymoon, she oughtn’t to have had a baby. Our ideas on the question of birth were utterly2 disorganized. There was only one explanation—that we had been misinformed by Hetty and people could have babies by themselves. The effect of this conjecture3 on Ruthita was revolutionizing: it made our honeymoon unnecessary and me entirely4 dispensable. She had only been persuaded to elope for the sake of exchanging dolls for babies, and now it appeared she could have them and her mother as well. I had no argument left with which to combat her desire to return. There was only one way of arriving at the truth on the subject, and that was by inquiring of Lilith. Neither of us would have done this for worlds after the way she had cried when we found that her back was no longer bulgy5.
The days grew shorter and the forest became bare. We could see long distances now between the tree-trunks; it was as though the branches had fisted their hands. Holiday-seekers came to the cocoanut-shies less and less. The fierce man, whom we learnt to call G’liath, had hardly any bruises6 on his face and hands; he dodged7 the balls easily. The few chance throwers had no crowd to make them reckless; they shied singly now and not in showers. The gaudily8 dressed woman lost her hoarseness9. She no longer had to shout night and morning, “Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball ’its a cocoanut. Down she goes,” etc. Why should she? There was no one to get excited—nobody to pay her pennies. Instead she sat by the fire, weaving wicker-baskets, watching the pearl-colored smoke go up in whiffs and eddies10. Though she seldom said anything, she had taken a fancy to Ruthita and would spread for her a corner of her skirt that she might sit beside her while she worked.
Every day as Ruthita became more sure that she could have a baby all by herself, she wanted to go home more badly. One evening the gaudy11 woman found her crying. She told G’liath that next morning he must harness in his little moke and go for Mr. Spreckles. I did not hear her tell him, but Lilith told me when she came to lie down beside me in the tent.
That night she held me closer. I could feel her heart thumping12. She roused me continually in the darkness to ask me needless questions. Whether I would ever forget her. “No.” Whether I would like to see her again. “Yes.” Whether I would like to become a gipsy. “Wouldn’t I!”
She was silent for so long that I began to drowse. I awoke with the tightening13 of her arms about me. When I lifted my face to hers, she commenced to kiss me passionately14. “You shall. You shall,” she said. “I’ll make a gipsy of you, so you’ll always remember and never be content with their closed-in world. They’ll take you from me to-morrow, but your heart will never be theirs.”
I didn’t understand, but at dawn she showed me. Frost lay on the ground. Every little blade of grass was stiff and sword-like. It was as though the hair of the world had turned white from shock and was standing15 on end.
She led me away through the tall stark16 forest to a glade17 so secret that no one could observe us. At first I thought she was escaping with me, carrying me off to her gipsy-land. But she made me kneel down beside her. As the sun wheeled above the cold horizon she snatched a little knife from beneath her dress, and pricked18 her wrist and mine so that they bled. She held her hand beneath our wrists, catching19 the blood in her palm so it mingled20. Then she let it drip through her fingers, making scarlet21 stains on the frosted turf.
As it fell she spoke22 to the grass and the trees and the air, telling them that I was hers and, because our blood was mingled, was one of them. “Whenever he hears your voice,” she said, “it will speak to him of me. If he goes where you do not grow, oh grass, then the trees shall call him back. If he goes where you do not grow, oh trees, then the wind shall tell him. His hand shall be as ours, against the works of men. When he hears your voice, oh grass, or your voice, oh trees, or your voice, oh winds, he shall turn his face from walls and come back. Though he leaves us he shall always hear us calling, for he is ours!”
And it seemed to me when her voice had ceased that I heard the grass nodding its head. From the dawn came a breath of wind, sweeping23 through the trees, stooping their leafless branches as though they gave assent24.
That morning for the first time we had breakfast in the caravan25. After breakfast Lilith and I went out together, hand-in-hand. G’liath was harnessing in his donkey. We watched him drive down the road and vanish. I did not want to go back and he knew it; he looked ashamed of himself. The country was bitter and cheerless; it had an atmosphere of parting—everything was withered26. Birds huddled27 close on branches with ruffled28 feathers. Fields were harsh and cracked.
“Little brother,” Lilith said, “one day you will be a man. Until then they will keep you prisoner and try to make you forget all the things which you and I have learnt. They will tell you that the trees have no voices: that it is only the wind that stirs them. They will tell you that rivers are only water flowing. But remember that out in the open they are all waiting for you, and that the other people who have no bodies are there.”
I thought of the picture I had seen in the pool and knew what she meant.
Towards evening we returned to the camp. The melancholy29 autumn twilight30 lay about us; in the heart of it the fire burnt red. We sat round it in silence, watching the hard white road through the trees and listening for G’liath coming back. “Ruthita,” I whispered, “do you think we shall find the little house?”
She shook her head doubtfully, as if she scarcely cared. She was thinking of the lighted room, perhaps, and the long white bed, where her mother was eagerly awaiting her.
Coming up the road we heard a sharp tap-a-tap. Dancing in and out the tree-trunks we saw the golden eyes of carriage-lamps. The dog-cart and Dollie came into sight and halted; my Uncle Obad jumped out. He had come alone to fetch us; I was glad of that. I could explain things to him so much more easily than to my father, and he was sure to understand. Catching sight of me by the fire, he ran forward and lifted me up in his arms. All he could say was, “Well, well, well!” His face was beaming; every little wrinkle in his face was trembling. He hugged me so tightly that he took away my breath. I didn’t get a chance to speak until he had set me down. Then I said, “Uncle Obad, this is Ruthita.”
He held out his hand to her gravely. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Dante Cardover,” he said. Then, because she was such a little girl and her face looked so thin and wistful, he took her in his arms and hugged her as well.
Suddenly the gaudy woman remembered that we were still clothed in our gipsy rags. She wanted to take us into the caravan and dress us, but Uncle Obad wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted on carrying us off to Pope Lane just as we were.
It was night when he said, “Dollie is rested; we must be going.” When we rose to our feet to say good-by, Lilith was not there. He lifted us into the dog-cart and wrapped rugs about our shoulders to make us cozy31. Then he jumped in beside us and we had our last look at the camp. The gaudy woman was standing up by the fire with her children huddled about her skirts. I could see the gleam of her ear-rings shaking, the lighted window of the caravan in the background, and the lurcher sneaking32 in and out the shadows. G’liath and his donkey travelled slowly; they had not returned when we left. Uncle Obad cracked his whip; we started forward across the turf and were soon bowling33 between the dim skeletons of trees down the hard road homeward.
Ruthita crept closer to me. She may have been cold and she may have been lonely, but I think she was just feeling how flat things were now our great adventure was over. She had feared it while it lasted; now, womanlike, she was wishing that it was not quite ended. Every now and then she drew her fingers across my face—a little love-trick she had. She leant her head against my shoulder and was soon sleeping soundly.
“Old chap, why did you do it?”
I looked up at my uncle; I could not see his face because of the darkness. His voice was very solemn and kindly34.
“We couldn’t see anything in the garden,” I said; “we wanted to find where the pigeons went.”
“But why did you take the little girl?”
I hesitated about telling. It might spoil what was left of the magic; I still had a faint hope that by the time we reached Pope Lane I might have grown into a man. And then, in telling, I might do Hetty a damage. Instead of answering, I asked him a question.
“When you’re married, you get everything you want, don’t you?”
“That depends on what you call everything, Dante.”
“Well, money, and a house, and a pony35, and babies.”
“Not always.”
He spoke softly. Then I knew I oughtn’t to have mentioned babies, because, like Lilith, he hadn’t any.
“It wasn’t I who wanted the babies,” I explained hurriedly; “that was Ruthie. She wanted them instead of dolls to play with. I wanted to be allowed to go in and out, like the children with the magic carpet.”
He knew at once what I meant. “You didn’t want to have grown people always bothering, telling you to do this and not to do that, and locking doors behind you? You wanted always to be free and jolly, like you and I are together? And you thought that you could be like that if you were married?”
He slowed Dollie down to a walk.
“Little man, you’ve been trying to get just what everyone’s reaching after. When you’re a boy you say, ‘I’ll have it when I’m a man.’ When you’re a man you say, ‘I’ll have it when I’m married.’ You’ve been searching for perpetual happiness. You’ll never have it in this world, Dante. And don’t you see why you’ll never have it? You hurt other people in trying to get it. Your father and Ruthita’s mother, all of us have been very anxious. I’ve often been tempted36 to run away myself because I’m not much use to anybody. But that would mean leaving someone I love; so I’ve had to stop on and face it out. You ran away to enjoy yourself, and other people were sorry. Other people always have to be sorry when a fellow does that.”
He shook the reins37 over Dollie and she commenced to trot38 again. Presently he said, half-speaking to himself, “There’s a better word than happiness, and that’s duty. If a chap does his duty the best he can, he makes other folk happy. Then he finds his own happiness by accident, within himself. I’m a queer one to be talking—I’m not awfully39 successful. I’ve run away a little. But you must do better. And if you can’t bear things, just imagine. What’s the difference between the things you really have and the things you pretend? Imagination is the magic carpet; you can pretend yourself anything and anywhere. If you’ve learnt that secret, they can lock all the doors—it won’t matter. I can’t put it plainer; there are things that it isn’t right for you to understand—this business about marriage. You’ll know when you’re a man. Now promise that you’ll never run away again.”
I promised.
When we got to Pope Lane it must have been very late. I suppose I fell asleep on the journey, for I remember nothing more until the light flashed in my eyes and my father was bending over me. Ruthita wasn’t there; she had been left already at her mother’s house. My father had me in his arms. He was standing in the hall. The door was wide open and my uncle was going down the steps, calling “Good-night” as he went. Behind me I could see Hetty peering over the banisters in a gray flannel40 nightdress—her night-dresses were all of gray flannel. When my father turned, she scuttled41 away like a frightened rabbit.
He carried me into his study—just as I was, clad in my gipsy rags—and closed the door behind him with a slam. His lamp on the table was turned low. The floor was littered with books and papers. A fire in the hearth42 was burning brightly. He drew up an easy-chair to the blaze and sat down, still holding me to him. I was always timid with my father, especially when we were alone together. This time I was very conscious of wrong-doing. I waited to hear him say something; but he remained silent, staring into the fire. The lamp flickered43 lower and lower, and went out.
“Father, I—I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Then I saw that he was crying. His tears splashed down. His face had lost that stem look. I was shaken by his sobs44 as he held me.
“Little son. My little son,” he whispered.
The room grew fainter. The pictures on the walls became shadowy. My eyes opened and closed. When I awoke the gray light of morning was stealing in at the window. The fire had fallen away in ashes. The air was chilly45. My father was sitting in the easy-chair, his head sunk forward—but his arms were still about me.
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1
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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bulgy
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| a.膨胀的；凸出的 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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7
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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8
gaudily
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| adv.俗丽地 | |
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hoarseness
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| n.嘶哑， 刺耳 | |
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10
eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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11
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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12
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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13
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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14
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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15
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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16
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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17
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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18
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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19
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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20
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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21
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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22
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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23
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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25
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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26
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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27
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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29
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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30
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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31
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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32
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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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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35
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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36
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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37
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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38
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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39
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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40
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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41
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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42
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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43
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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45
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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