Lucian’s experience at the grammar-school was never repeated under the new régime. The vicar had been somewhat starved in the matter of conversation for{53} more years than he cared to remember, and it was a Godsend to him to have a keen and inquiring mind opposed to his own. His pupil’s education began and was continued in an unorthodox fashion; there was no system and very little order in it, but it was good for man and boy. They began to spend much time together, in the field as much as in the study. Mr. Chilverstone, encouraged thereto by Lucian, revived an ancient taste for arch?ology, and the two made long excursions to the ruined abbeys, priories, castles, and hermitages in their neighbourhood. Miss Pepperdine, to whom Lucian invariably applied5 for large supplies of sandwiches on these occasions, had an uncomfortable suspicion that the boy would have been better employed with a copy-book or a slate6, but she had great faith in the vicar, and acknowledged that her nephew never got into mischief7, though he had certainly set his room on fire one night by a bad habit of reading in bed. She had become convinced that Lucian was an odd chicken, who had got into the brood by some freak of fortune, and she fell into the prevalent fashion of the family in regarding him as something uncommon8 that was not to be judged by ordinary rules of life or interfered9 with. To Mr. Pepperdine and to Judith he remained a constant source of wonder, interest, and amusement, for his tongue never ceased to wag, and he communicated to them everything that he saw, heard, and thought, with a freedom and generosity10 that kept them in a perpetual state of mental activity.
Towards the end of June, when Lucian had been three months at Simonstower, he walked into the vicar’s study one morning to find him in a state of mild excitement. Mr. Chilverstone nodded his head at a letter which lay open on his desk.
‘The day after to-morrow,’ he said, ‘you will see my daughter. She is coming home from school.’
Lucian made no answer. It seemed to him that this bare announcement wrought11 some subtle change. He knew nothing whatever of girls—they had never come{54} into his life, and he was doubtful about them. He stared hard at the vicar.
‘Will you be glad to see her?’ he asked.
‘Why, surely!’ exclaimed Mr. Chilverstone. ‘Yes—I have not seen her for nearly a year, and it is two years since she left home. Yes—Millie is all I have.’
Lucian felt a pang12 of jealousy13. It was part of his nature to fall in love with every new friend he made; in return, he expected each new friend to devote himself to him. He had become very fond of the vicar; they got on together excellently; it was not pleasant to think that a girl was coming between them. Besides, what Mr. Chilverstone said was not true. This Millie was not all he had—he had some of him, Lucian.
‘You will like my little girl,’ the vicar went on, utterly14 oblivious15 of the fact that he was making the boy furiously jealous. ‘She is full of life and fun—a real ray of sunshine in a house.’ He sighed heavily and looked at a portrait of his wife. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘she is quite a lively girl, my little Millie. A sort of tomboy, you know. I call her Sprats; it seems to fit her, somehow.’
Lucian almost choked with rage and grief. All the old, pleasant companionship; all the long talks and walks; all the disputations and scholarly wrangles16 were to be at an end, and all because of a girl whose father called her Sprats! It was unbelievable. He gazed at the unobservant clergyman with eyes of wonder; he had come to have a great respect for him as a scholar, and could not understand how a man who could make the Greek grammar so interesting could feel any interest in a girl, even though that girl happened to be his own daughter. For women like his aunts, and Mrs. Trippett, and the housekeeper17 at the castle, Lucian had a great liking18; they were all useful in one way or another, either to get good things to eat out of, or to talk to when one wanted to talk; but girls—whatever place had they in the economy of nature! He had never spoken to a girl in his life, except to little Mary Trippett, who was{55} nine, and to whom he sometimes gave sweets and dolls. Would he be expected to talk to this girl whose father called her Sprats? He turned hot and cold at the thought.
His visit to the vicarage that morning was a dead failure. Mr. Chilverstone’s behaviour was foolish and ridiculous: he would talk of Sprats. He even went as far as to tell Lucian of some of Sprats’s escapades. They were mostly of the practical-joke order, and seemed to afford Mr. Chilverstone huge amusement—Lucian wondered how he could be so silly. He endeavoured to be as polite as possible, but he declined an invitation to stay to lunch. He would cheerfully listen to Mr. Chilverstone on the very dryest points of an irregular verb, but Mr. Chilverstone on Sprats was annoying—he almost descended20 to futility21.
Lucian refused two invitations that afternoon. Mr. Pepperdine offered to take him with him to York, whither he was proceeding22 on business; Miss Judith asked him if he would like to go with her to the house of a friend in whose grounds was a haunted hermitage. He declined both invitations with great politeness and went out in solitude23. Part of the afternoon he spent with an old man who mended the roads. The old man was stone-deaf and needed no conversational24 effort on the part of a friend, and when he spoke19 himself he talked of intelligent subjects, such as rheumatism25, backache, and the best cure for stone in the bladder. Lucian thought him a highly intelligent man, and presented him with a screw of tobacco purchased at the village shop—it was a tacit thankoffering to the gods that the old man had avoided the subject of girls. His spirits improved after a visit to the shoemaker, who told him a brand-new ghost story for the truth of which he vouched26 with many solemn asseverations, and he was chatty with his Aunt Keziah when they took tea together. But that night he did not talk so much as usual, and he went to bed early and made no attempt to coax27 Miss Pepperdine into letting him have the extra{56} light which she had confiscated28 after he had set his bed on fire.
Next day Lucian hoped to find the vicar in a saner29 frame of mind, but to his astonishment30 and disgust Mr. Chilverstone immediately began to talk of Sprats again, and continued to do so until he became unbearable31. Lucian was obliged to listen to stories which to him seemed inept32, fatuous33, and even imbecile. He was told of Sprats’s first distinct words; of her first tooth; of her first attempts to walk; of the memorable34 occasion upon which she placed her pet kitten on the fire in order to warm it. The infatuated father, who had not had an opportunity of retailing35 these stories for some time, and who believed that he was interesting his listener, continued to pour forth36 story after story, each more feeble and ridiculous than the last, until Lucian could have shrieked37 with the agony which was tearing his soul to pieces. He pleaded a bad headache at last and tried to slip away—Mr. Chilverstone detained him in order to give him an anti-headache powder, and accompanied his researches into the medicine cupboard with a highly graphic38 description of a stomach-ache which Sprats had once contracted from too lavish39 indulgence in unripe40 apples, and was cured by himself with some simple drug. The vicar, in short, being a disingenuous41 and a simple-minded man, had got Sprats on the brain, and he imagined that every word he said was meeting with a responsive thrill in the boy’s heart.
Lucian escaped the fatuous father at last. He rushed out into the sunlight, almost choking with rage, grief, and disappointment. He flung the powder into the hedge-bottom, sat down on a stone-heap at the side of the road, and began to swear in Italian. He swore freely and fluently until he had exhausted42 that eloquent43 vocabulary which one may pick up in Naples and Venice and in the purlieus of Hatton Garden, and when he had finished he began it all over again and repeated it with as much fervour as one should display, if one is honest, in reciting the Rosary. This saved him from{57} apoplexy, but the blood grew black within him and his soul was scratched. It had been no part of Lucian’s plans for the future that Sprats should come between him and his friend.
He slept badly that night, and while he lay awake he said to himself that it was all over. It was a mere44 repetition of history—a woman always came between men. He had read a hundred instances—this was one more. Of course, the Sprats creature would oust45 him from his place—nothing would ever be as it had been. All was desolate46, and he was alone. He read several pages of the fourth canto47 of Childe Harold as soon as it was light, and dropped asleep with the firm conviction that life is a grey thing.
All that day and the next Lucian kept away from the vicarage. The domestic deities48 wondered why he did not go as usual; he invented plausible49 excuses with facile ingenuity50. He neglected his books and betrayed a suspicious interest in Mr. Pepperdine’s recent purchases of cattle; he was restless and at times excited, and Miss Keziah looked at his tongue and felt his forehead and made him swallow a dose of a certain home-made medicine by which she set great store. On the third day the suppressed excitement within him reached boiling-point. He went out into the fields mad to work it off, and by good or ill luck lighted upon an honest rustic51 who was hoeing turnips52 under a blazing midsummer sun. Lucian looked at the rustic with the eye of a mocking and mischievous53 devil.
‘Boggles,’ he said, with a Mephistophelian coaxing54, ‘would you like to hear some Italian?’ Boggles ruminated55.
‘Why, Master Lucian,’ he said, ‘I don’t know as I ever did hear that language—can’t say as I ever did, anyhow.’
‘Listen, then,’ said Lucian. He treated Boggles to a string of expletives, delivered with native force and energy, making use of his eyes and teeth until the man began to feel frightened.{58}
‘Lord sakes, Master Lucian!’ he said, ‘one ’ud think you was going to murder somebody—you look that fierce. It’s a queer sort o’ language that, sir—I never heard nowt like it. It flays56 a body.’
‘It is the most delightful57 language in the world when you want to swear,’ said Lucian. ‘It....’
‘Nonsense! It isn’t a patch on German. You wait till I get over the hedge and I’ll show you,’ cried a ringing and very authoritative58 voice. ‘I can reel off twice as much as that.’
Lucian turned round with an instinctive59 feeling that a critical moment was at hand. He caught sight of something feminine behind the hedgerow; the next instant a remarkably60 nimble girl came over a half-made gap. The turnip-hoeing man uttered an exclamation61 which had much joy in it.
‘Lord sakes if it isn’t Miss Millie!’ he said, touching62 his cap. ‘Glad to see ’ee once again, missie. They did tell me you was coming from them furrineerin’ countries, and there you be, growed quite up, as one might say.’
‘Not quite, but nearly, Boggles,’ answered Miss Chilverstone. ‘How’s your rheumatics, as one might call ’em? They were pretty bad when I went away, I remember.’
‘They’re always bad i’ th’ winter, miss,’ said Boggles, leaning on his hoe and evincing a decided63 desire to talk, ‘and a deal better in summer, allus providing the Lord don’t send no rain. Fine, dry weather, miss, is what I want—the rain ain’t no good to me.’
‘A little drop wouldn’t hurt the turnips, anyway,’ said Miss Chilverstone, looking about her with a knowing air. ‘Seem pretty well dried up, don’t they?’ She looked at Lucian. Their eyes met: the boy stared and blushed; the girl stared and laughed.
‘Did it lose its tongue, then?’ she said teasingly. ‘It seemed to have a very long and very ready one when it was swearing at poor old Boggles. What made him use such bad language to you, Boggles?’{59}
‘Lord bless ’ee, missie,’ said Boggles hurriedly, ‘he didn’t mean no harm, didn’t Master Lucian—he was telling me how they swear in Eye-talian. Not but what it didn’t sound very terrible—but he wouldn’t hurt a fly, wouldn’t Master Lucian, miss, he wouldn’t indeed.’
‘Dear little lamb!’ she said mockingly, ‘I shouldn’t think he would.’ She turned on the boy with a sudden twist of her shoulders. ‘So you are Lucian, are you?’ she asked.
‘I am Lucian, yes,’ he answered.
‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked, with a flashing look.
Lucian stared back at her, and the shadow of a smile stole into his face.
‘I think,’ he said musingly64, ‘I think you must be Sprats.’
Then the two faced each other and stared as only stranger children can stare.
Mr. Boggles, his watery65 old eyes keenly observant, leaned his chin upon his hoe and stared also, chuckling66 to himself. Neither saw him; their eyes were all for each other. The girl, without acknowledging it, perhaps without knowing it, recognised the boy’s beauty and hated him for it in a healthy fashion. He was too much of a picture; his clothes were too neat; his collar too clean; his hands too white; he was altogether too much of a fine and finicking little gentleman; he ought, she said to herself, to be stuck in a velvet67 suit, and a point-lace collar, and labelled. The spirit of mischief entered into her at the sight of him.
Lucian examined this strange creature with care. He was relieved to find that she was by no means beautiful. He saw a strong-limbed, active-looking young damsel, rather older and rather taller than himself, whose face was odd, rather than pretty, and chiefly remarkable68 for a prodigality69 of freckles70 and a healthy tan. Her nose was pugnacious71 and inclined to be of the snub order; her hair sandy and anything but tidy;{60} there was nothing beautiful in her face but a pair of brown eyes of a singularly clear and honest sort. As for her attire72, it was not in that order which an exacting73 governess might have required: she wore a blue serge frock in which she had evidently been climbing trees or scrambling74 through hedgerows, a battered75 straw hat wherein she or somebody had stuck the long feathers from a cock’s tail; there was a rent in one of her stockings, and her stout76 shoes looked as if she had tramped through several ploughed fields in them. All over and round her glowed a sort of aureole of rude and vigorous health, of animal spirits, and of a love of mischief—the youthful philosopher confronting her recognised a new influence and a new nature.
‘Yes,’ she said demurely77, ‘I’m Sprats, and you’ve a cheek to call me so—who gave you leave, I’d like to know? What would you think if I told you that you’d look nice if you had a barrel-organ and a monkey on it? Ha! ha! had him there, hadn’t I, Boggles? Well, do you know where I am going, monkey-boy?’
Lucian sighed resignedly.
‘No,’ he answered.
‘Going to fetch you,’ she said. ‘You haven’t been to your lessons for two days, and you’re to go this instant minute.’
‘I don’t think I want any lessons to-day,’ replied Lucian.
‘Hear him!’ she said, making a grimace78. ‘What do they do with little boys who won’t go to school, Boggles—eh?’
If Lucian had known more of a world with which he had never, poor child, had much opportunity of making acquaintance, he would have seen that Sprats was meditating79 mischief. Her eyes began to glitter: she smiled demurely.
‘Are you coming peaceably?’ she asked.
‘But I’m not coming at all,’ replied Lucian.
‘Aren’t you, though? We’ll soon settle that,{61} won’t we, Boggles?’ she exclaimed. ‘Now then, monkey—off you go!’
She was on him with a rush before he knew what was about to happen, and had lifted him off his feet and swung him on to her shoulder ere he could escape her. Lucian expostulated and beseeched; Sprats, shouting and laughing, made for a gap in the hedgerow; Boggles, hugely delighted, following in the wake. At the gap a battle royal ensued—Lucian fighting to free himself, the girl clinging on to him with all the strength of her vigorous young arms.
‘Let me go, I say!’ cried Lucian. ‘Let me down!’
‘You’d best to go quiet and peaceable, Master Lucian,’ counselled Boggles. ‘Miss Millie ain’t one to be denied of anything.’
‘But I won’t be carried!’ shouted Lucian, half mad with rage. ‘I won’t....’
He got no further. Sprats, holding on tight to her captive, caught her foot in a branch as she struggled over the gap, and pitched headlong through. There was a steep bank at the other side with a wide ditch of water at its foot: Boggles, staring over the hedge with all his eyes, beheld80 captor and captive, an inextricable mass of legs and arms, turn a series of hurried somersaults and collapse81 into the duck-weed and water-lilies with a splash that drowned their mutual82 screams of rage, indignation, and delight.
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1
fructified
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| v.结果实( fructify的过去式和过去分词 )；使结果实，使多产，使土地肥沃 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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7
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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wrangles
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| n.（尤指长时间的）激烈争吵，口角，吵嘴( wrangle的名词复数 )v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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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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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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vouched
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| v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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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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retailing
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| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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disingenuous
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| adj.不诚恳的，虚伪的 | |
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42
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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43
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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45
oust
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| vt.剥夺，取代，驱逐 | |
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46
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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47
canto
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| n.长篇诗的章 | |
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48
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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49
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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50
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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51
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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52
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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53
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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54
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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55
ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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56
flays
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| v.痛打( flay的第三人称单数 )；把…打得皮开肉绽；剥（通常指动物）的皮；严厉批评 | |
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57
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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58
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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59
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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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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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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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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