He bade the man drive on to the vicarage. He had sent no word of his coming; he had more than once{198} descended9 upon his friends at Simonstower without warning, and had always found a welcome. The vicar came bustling10 into the hall to him, with no sign of surprise.
‘I did not know they had wired to you, my boy,’ he said, greeting him in the old affectionate way, ‘but it was good of you to come so quickly.’
Lucian recognised that something had happened.
‘I don’t understand you,’ he said. ‘No one wired to me; I came down on my own initiative—I wanted to see my uncle on business.’
‘Ah!’ said the vicar, shaking his head. ‘Then you do not know?—your uncle is ill. He had a stroke—a fit—you know what I mean—this very morning. Your Aunt Judith is across at the farm now. But come in, my dear boy—how cold you must be.’
Lucian went out to the conveyance11 which had brought him over, paid the driver, and bade him refresh himself at the inn, and then joined the vicar in his study. There again were the familiar objects which spelled Home. It suddenly occurred to him that he was much more at home here or in the farmhouse parlour along the roadside than in his own house in London, and he wondered in vague, indirect fashion why that should be so.
‘Is my uncle dangerously ill, then?’ he asked, looking at the vicar, who was fidgeting about with the fire-irons and repeating his belief that Lucian must be very cold.
‘I fear so, I fear so,’ answered Mr. Chilverstone. ‘It is, I think, an apoplectic12 seizure—he was rather inclined to that, if you come to think of it. Your aunt has just gone across there. It was early this morning that it happened, and she has been over to the farm several times during the day, but this time I think she will find a specialist there—Dr. Matthews wished for advice and wired to Smokeford for some great man who was to arrive an hour ago. I am glad you have come, Lucian. Did you see Sprats before leaving?’
Lucian replied that he had seen Sprats on the previous day. He sat down, answering the vicar’s questions{199} respecting his daughter in mechanical fashion—he was thinking of the various events of the past twenty-four hours, and wondering if Mr. Pepperdine’s illness was likely to result in death. Mr. Chilverstone turned from Sprats to the somewhat sore question of the tragedy. It was to him a sad sign of the times that the public had neglected such truly good work, and he went on to express his own opinion of the taste of the age. Lucian listened absent-mindedly until Mrs. Chilverstone returned with news of the sick man. She was much troubled; the specialist gave little hope of Simpson’s recovery. He might linger for some days, but it was almost certain that a week would see the end of him. But in spite of her trouble Aunt Judith was practical. Keziah, she said, must not be left alone that night, and she herself was going back to the farm as soon as she had seen that the vicar was properly provided for in respect of his sustenance13 and comfort. Ever since her marriage Mrs. Chilverstone had felt that her main object in life was the pleasing of her lord; she had put away all thought of the dead hussar, and her romantic disposition14 had bridled15 itself with the reins16 of chastened affection. Thus the vicar, who under Sprats’s régime had neither been pampered17 nor coddled, found himself indulged in many modes hitherto unknown to him, and he accepted all that was showered upon him with modest thankfulness. He thought his wife a kindly18 and considerate soul, and did not realise, being a truly simple man, that Judith was pouring out upon him the resources of a treasury19 which she had been stocking all her life. He was the first thing she had the chance of loving in a practical fashion; hence he began to live among rose-leaves. He protested now that Lucian and himself wanted for nothing. Mrs. Chilverstone, however, took the reins in hand, saw that the traveller was properly attended to and provided for, and did not leave the vicarage until the two men were comfortably seated at the dinner-table, the maids admonished20 as to lighting21 a fire in Mr. Damerel’s room, and the vicar warned of{200} the necessity of turning out the lamps and locking the doors. Then she returned to her brother’s house, and for an hour or two Lucian and his old tutor talked of things nearest to their hearts, and the feelings of home came upon the younger man more strongly than ever. He began to wonder how it was that he had settled down in London when he might have lived in the country; the atmosphere of this quiet, book-lined room in a village parsonage was, he thought just then, much more to his true taste than that in which he had spent the last few years of his life. At Oxford22 Lucian had lived the life of a book-worm and a dreamer: he was not a success in examinations, and he brought no great honour upon his tutor. In most respects he had lived apart from other men, and it was not until the publication of his first volume had drawn23 the eyes of the world upon him that he had been swept out of the peaceful backwater of a student’s existence into the swirling24 tides of the full river of life. Then had followed Lord Simonstower’s legacy25, and then the runaway26 marriage with Haidee, and then four years of butterfly existence. He began to wonder, as he ate the vicar’s well-kept mutton, fed on the moorlands close by, and sipped27 the vicar’s old claret, laid down many a year before, whether his recent life had not been a feverish28 dream. Looked at from this peaceful retreat, its constant excitement and perpetual rush and movement seemed to have lost whatever charm they once had for him. Unconsciously Lucian was suffering from reaction: his moral as well as his physical nature was crying for rest, and the first oasis29 in the desert assumed the delightful30 colours and soft air of Paradise.
Later in the evening he walked over to the farmhouse, through softly falling snow, to inquire after his uncle’s condition. Mrs. Chilverstone was in the sick man’s room and did not come downstairs; Miss Pepperdine received him in the parlour. In spite of the trouble that had fallen upon the house and of the busy day which she had spent, Keziah was robed in state for the evening, and she sat bolt upright in her chair plying31 her knitting-needles{201} as vigorously as in the old days which Lucian remembered so well. He sat down and glanced at Simpson Pepperdine’s chair, and wished the familiar figure were occupying it, and he talked to his aunt of her brother’s illness, and the cloud which hung over the house weighed heavily upon both.
‘I am glad you came down, Lucian,’ said Miss Pepperdine, after a time. ‘I have been wanting to talk to you.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What about?’
Keziah’s needles clicked with unusual vigour32 for a moment or two.
‘Simpson,’ she said at last, ‘was always a soft-hearted man. If he had been harder of heart, he would have been better off.’
Lucian, puzzled by this ambiguous remark, stared at Miss Pepperdine in a fashion indicative of his amazement33.
‘I think,’ continued Miss Pepperdine, with pointed34 emphasis, ‘I think it is time you knew more than you know at present, Lucian. When all is said and done, you are the nearest of kin3 in the male line, and after hearing the doctors to-night I’m prepared for Simpson’s death at any moment. It’s a very bad attack of apoplexy—if he lived he’d be a poor invalid35 all his life. Better that he should be taken while in the full possession of his faculties36.’
Lucian gazed at the upright figure before him with mingled37 feelings. Miss Pepperdine used to sit like that, and knit like that, and talk like that, in the old days—especially when she felt it to be her duty to reprimand him for some offence. So far as he could tell, she was wearing the same stiff and crackly silk gown, she held her elbows close to her side and in just the same fashion, she spoke39 with the same precision as in the time of Lucian’s youth. The sight of her prim38 figure, the sound of her precise voice, blotted40 out half a score of years: Lucian felt very young again.{202}
‘It may not be so bad as you think,’ he said. ‘Even the best doctors may err41.’
Miss Pepperdine shook her head.
‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s all over with Simpson. And I think you ought to know, Lucian, how things are with him. Simpson has been a close man, he has kept things to himself all his life; and of late he has been obliged to confide42 in me, and I know a great deal that I did not know.’
‘Yes?’ said Lucian.
‘Simpson,’ she continued, ‘has not done well in business for some time. He had a heavy loss some years ago through a rascally43 lawyer whom he trusted—he always was one of those easy-going men that will trust anybody—and although the old Lord Simonstower helped him out of the difficulty, it ultimately fell on his own shoulders, and of late he has had hard work to keep things going. Simpson will die a poor man. Not that that matters—Judith and myself are provided for. I shall leave here, afterwards. Judith, of course, is married. But as regards you, Lucian, you lent Simpson some money a few months ago, didn’t you?’
‘My dear aunt!’ exclaimed Lucian, ‘I——’
‘I know all about it,’ she said, ‘though it’s only recently that I have known. Well, you mustn’t be surprised if you have to lose it, Lucian. When all is settled up, I don’t think there will be much, if anything, over; and of course everybody must be paid before a member of the family. The Pepperdines have always had their pride, and as your mother was a Pepperdine, Lucian, you must have a share of it in you.’
‘I have my father’s pride as well,’ answered Lucian. ‘Of course I shall not expect the money. I was glad to be able to lend it.’
‘Well,’ said Miss Pepperdine, with the air of one who deals out justice impartially44, ‘in one way you were only paying Simpson back for what he had laid out on you. He spent a good deal of money on you, Lucian, when you were a boy.’{203}
Lucian heard this news with astonished feelings.
‘I did not know that,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I am careless about these things, but I have always thought that my father left money for me.’
‘I thought so too, until recently,’ replied Miss Pepperdine. ‘Your father thought that he did, too, and he made Simpson executor and trustee. But the money was badly invested. It was in a building society in Rome, and it was all lost. There was never a penny piece from it, from the time of your father’s death to this.’
Lucian listened in silence.
‘Then,’ he said, after a time, ‘my uncle was responsible for everything for me? I suppose he paid Mr. Chilverstone, and bought my clothes, and gave me pocket-money, and so on?’
‘Every penny,’ replied his aunt. ‘Simpson was always a generous man.’
‘And my three years at Oxford?’ he said inquiringly.
‘Ah!’ replied Miss Pepperdine, ‘that’s another matter. Well—I don’t suppose it matters now that you should know, though Simpson wouldn’t have told you, but I think you ought to know. That was Lord Simonstower—the old lord. He paid every penny.’
Lucian uttered a sharp exclamation45. He rose from his chair and took a step or two about the room. Miss Pepperdine continued to knit with undiminished vigour.
‘So it would seem,’ he said presently, ‘that I lived and was educated on charity?’
‘That is how most people would put it,’ she answered, ‘though, to do them justice, I don’t think either Lord Simonstower or Simpson Pepperdine would have called it that. They thought you a promising46 youth and they put money into you. That’s why I want you to feel that Simpson was only getting back a little of his own in the money that you lent him, though I know he would have paid it back to the day, according to his promise, if he’d been able. But I’m afraid that he would not have been{204} able, and I think his money affairs have worked upon him.’
‘I wish I had known,’ said Lucian. ‘He should have had no anxiety on my account.’
He continued to pace the floor; Miss Pepperdine’s needles clicked an accompaniment to his advancing and retreating steps.
‘I thought it best,’ she observed presently, ‘that you should know all these things—they will explain a good deal.’
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘it is best. I should know. But I wish I had known long ago. After all, a man should not be placed in a false position even by his dearest friends. I ought to have been told the truth.’
Miss Pepperdine’s needles clicked viciously.
‘So I always felt—after I knew, and that is but recently,’ she answered. ‘But, as I have said to you before, Simpson Pepperdine is a soft-hearted man.’
‘He has been a kind-hearted man,’ said Lucian. He was thinking, as he walked about the room, glancing at the well-remembered objects, that the money which he had wasted in luxuries that he could well have done without would have relieved Mr. Pepperdine of anxiety and trouble. And yet he had never known, never guessed, that the kindly-hearted farmer had anything to distress47 him.
‘I think we all seem to walk in darkness,’ he said, thinking aloud. ‘I never had the least notion of this. Had I known anything of it, Uncle Simpson should have had all that I could give him.’
Miss Pepperdine melted. She had formed rather hard thoughts of Lucian since his marriage. The side-winds which blew upon her ears from time to time represented him as living in a style which her old-fashioned mind did not approve: she had come to consider him as extravagant48, frivolous49, and unbalanced. But she was a woman of sound common sense and great shrewdness, and she recognised the genuine ring in Lucian’s voice{205} and the sincerity50 of his regret that he had not been able to save Simpson Pepperdine some anxiety.
‘I’m sure you would, my boy,’ she said kindly. ‘However, Simpson has done with everything now. I didn’t tell Judith, because she frets51 so, but the doctors don’t think he’ll ever regain52 consciousness—it will only be a matter of a few days, Lucian.’
‘And that only makes one wish that one had known of his anxieties sooner,’ he said. ‘Five years ago I could have helped him substantially.’
He was thinking of the ten thousand pounds which had already disappeared. Miss Pepperdine did not follow his line of thought.
‘Yes, I’ve heard that you’ve made a lot of money,’ she said. ‘You’ve been one of the lucky ones, Lucian, for I always understood that poets generally lived in garrets and were half-starved most of their time. I’m sure one used to read all that sort of thing in books; but perhaps times have changed, and so much the better. Simpson always read your books as soon as you sent them. Upon my word, I’m sure he never understood what it was all about, except perhaps some of the songs and ballads53, but he liked the long words, and he was very proud of these little green books—they’re all in his bureau there, along with his account-books. Well, as I was saying, I understand you’ve made money, Lucian. Take care of it, my boy, for you never know when you may want it, and want it badly, in this world. There’s one thing I want you to promise me. I don’t yet know how things will be when Simpson’s gone, but if he is a bit on the wrong side of the ledger54, it must be made up by the family, and you must do your share. It mustn’t be said that a Pepperdine died owing money that he couldn’t pay. I’ve already talked it over with Judith, and if there is money to be found, she and I and you must find it between us. If need be, all mine can go,’ she added sharply. ‘I can get a place as a housekeeper55 even at my age.’
Lucian gave her his promise readily enough, and{206} immediately began to wonder what it might imply. But he agreed with her reasoning, and assured himself that, if necessary, he would live on a crust in order to carry out her wishes. And soon afterwards he set out for the vicarage, promising to return for news of Mr. Pepperdine’s condition at an early hour in the morning.
As he walked back over the snow Lucian was full of thought. The conversation with Miss Pepperdine had opened a new world to him. He had always believed himself independent: it now turned out that for years and years he had lived at other men’s charges. He owed his very food to the charity of a relative; another man, upon whom he had no claim, had lavished56 generosity57 upon him in no unstinted fashion. He was full of honest gratitude58 to these men, but he wished at the same time that he had known of their liberality sooner. He felt that he had been placed in a false position, and the feeling lowered him in his own estimation. He thought of his father, who earned money easily and spent it freely, and realised that he had inherited his happy-go-lucky temperament59. Yet he had never doubted that his father had made provision for him, for he remembered hearing him tell some artist friends one afternoon in Florence that he had laid money aside for Lucian’s benefit, and Cyprian Damerel had been a man of common sense, fond of pleasure and good living and generous though he was. But Lucian well understood the story of the Roman building society—greater folk than he, from the Holy Father downwards60, had lost money out of that feverish desire to build which has characterised the Romans of all ages. No doubt his father had been carried away by some wave of enthusiasm, and had put all his eggs into one basket, and they had all been broken together. Still, Lucian wished that Mr. Pepperdine had told him all this on his reaching an age of understanding—it would have made a difference in many ways. ‘I seem,’ he thought, as he plodded61 on through the snow, ‘I seem to have lived in an unreal world, and to have supposed things which were not!’ And he began to recall the days{207} of sure and confident youth, when his name was being extolled62 as that of a newly risen star in the literary firmament63, and his own heart was singing with the joy of pride and strength and full assurance. He had never felt one doubt of the splendour of his career, never accepted it as anything but his just due. His very certainty on these matters had, all unknown to himself, induced in him an unassuming modesty64, at which many people who witnessed his triumphs and saw him lionised had wondered. Now, however, he had tasted the bitterness of reverse; he had found that Fortune can frown as easily as she can smile, and that it is hard to know upon what principle her smiles and frowns are portioned out. To a certain point, life for Lucian had been a perpetual dancing along the primrose65 way—it was now developing into a tangle66 wherein were thorns and briars.
He was too full of these thoughts to care for conversation, even with his old tutor, and he pleaded fatigue67 and went to bed. He lay awake for the greater part of the night, thinking over his talk with Miss Pepperdine, and endeavouring to arrange his affairs so that he might make good his promise to her, and when he slept, his sleep was troubled by uneasy dreams. He woke rather late in the morning with a feeling of impending68 calamity69 hanging heavily upon him. As he dressed, Mr. Chilverstone came tapping at his door—something in the sound warned Lucian of bad news. He was not surprised when the vicar told him that Simpson Pepperdine had died during the night.
He walked over to the farm as soon as he had breakfasted, and remained there until noon. Coming back, he overtook the village postman, who informed him that the letters were three hours late that morning in consequence of the heavy fall of snow, which had choked up the roads between Simonstower and Oakborough.
‘It’ll be late afternoon afore I’ve finished my rounds,’ he added, with a strong note of self-pity. ‘If you’re going up to the vicarage, sir, it ’ud save me a step if{208} you took the vicar’s letters—and there’s one, I believe, for yourself.’
Lucian took the bundle of letters which the man held out to him, and turned it over until he found his own. He wondered why Haidee had written to him—she had no great liking70 for correspondence, and he had not expected to hear from her during his absence. He opened the letter in the vicar’s study, without the least expectation of finding any particular news in it.
It was a very short letter, and, considering the character of the intimation it was intended to make, the phrasing was commendably71 plain and outspoken72. Lucian’s wife merely announced that his plans for the future were not agreeable to her, and that she was leaving home with the intention of joining Eustace Darlington in Paris. She further added that it was useless to keep up pretences73 any longer; she had already been unfaithful, and she would be glad if Lucian would arrange to divorce her as quickly as possible, so that she and Darlington might marry. Either as an afterthought, or out of sheer good will, she concluded with a lightly worded expression of friendship and of hope that Lucian might have better luck next time.
It is more than probable that Haidee was never quite so much her true self in her relation to Lucian as when writing this letter. It is permitted to every woman, whatever her mental and moral quality, to have her ten minutes of unreasoning romance at some period of her life, and Haidee had hers when she and Lucian fell in love with each other’s beauty and ran away to hide themselves from the world while they played out their little comedy. It was natural that they should tire of each other within the usual time; but the man’s sense of duty was developed in Lucian in a somewhat exceptional way, and he was inclined to settle down to a Darby and Joan life. Haidee had little of that particular instinct. She was all for pleasure and the glory of this world, and there is small wonder that the prospect74 of exile in a land for which she had no great liking should{209} have driven her to the salvation75 of her diamonds and herself by recourse to the man whom she ought to have married instead of Lucian. There was already a guilty bond between them; it seemed natural to Haidee to look to it as a means of drawing her away from the dangers which threatened her worldly comfort. It was equally natural to her to announce all these things to Lucian in pretty much the same terms that she would have employed had she been declining an invitation to some social engagement.
Lucian read the letter three times. He gave no sign of whatever emotion it called up. All that he did was to announce in quiet, matter-of-fact tones that he must return to London that afternoon, and to beg the loan of the vicar’s horse and trap as far as Wellsby station. After that he lunched with Mr. and Mrs. Chilverstone, and if they thought him unusually quiet, there was good reason for that in the fact that Simpson Pepperdine was lying dead in the old farmhouse behind the pine groves76.
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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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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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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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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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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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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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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frets
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| 基质间片； 品丝（吉他等指板上定音的）( fret的名词复数 ) | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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commendably
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| 很好地 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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