You remember Kipling's poem of "The Files," bound volumes of past years; which are repositories of all lost endeavours and dead enthusiasm. Heaven help us when we can write and achieve no more, and the only[144] work of our youth and manhood lies buried, forgotten, in the faded yellow sheets of the files.
But Humphrey Quain at this period, just like every other young man, whether he be a haberdasher or a reporter, did not contemplate7 the remote future. He was young, and his brain was clear and fresh, and he wrote everything with a pulsing eagerness, as though it were his final appeal to posterity8. He found his style improving, as he read, and his understanding broadened. He wrote in the crisp style that suited The Day; he had what they call the "human touch"—that was a phrase which Ferrol was very fond of using. Rivers began to entrust10 him with better things to do: now and again he was sent out of London on country assignments. That was a delightful11 business, to escape for a day or so from the office routine, and be more or less independent in some far-away town or village. You were given money for expenses, and told to go to Cornwall, where something extraordinary was about to happen, or some one had a grievance12, or else there was some one to interview, and you packed a handbag, and went in a cab to Paddington, and had lunch on the train, and stopped at the best hotel, and generally tried to pretend that you were holiday making. But, more often than not, the idea of a holiday fell away when you got to the place, and you had to bustle13 and bother and worry to get what you wanted. Then you had to write your message, and that meant generally being late for dinner, or perhaps it was the kind of story that kept you hanging about and made it necessary to telephone news late at night.
But going out of town held a wonderful charm for Humphrey—it gave him a sense of responsibility. It made him feel that the office trusted him; somehow or other he felt more important on these country jobs, as if he bore the burden of The Day on his own shoulders.
[145]
There was the charm, too, of writing the story in the first person, instead of adopting the impersonal14 attitude that was the rule with London work; and the charm of fixing the little telegraph pass to the message, which franked it at press rates to The Day without pre-payment. Sometimes there were other men on the same story, and they forgathered after work, and as all journalists do, talked shop, because they cannot talk of anything without it touches the fringe of their work. The men he met were, for the most part, thoroughly15 experienced and capable, they were tremendously enthusiastic, though they tried to appear blasé, because it was considered the correct thing among themselves. They never discussed each other's work, nor told of what they had written. Even when they met in the morning, though they had all read their colleagues' messages in the papers, and compared them with their own, they kept aloof16 from all reference to the merits or demerits of these messages. But it used to rejoice Humphrey's heart to see, sometimes, how older men who were inclined to patronize him as a beginner and a junior the night before, treated him as one of themselves in the morning at the breakfast-table. And he nearly burst with pride when he first saw his messages headed: "From The Day Special Correspondent." Even though he were no further afield than Manchester or Birmingham, it seemed to place him in the gallant17 band of great ones just as if he were a Steevens, a Billy Russell, or an Archibald Forbes.
And all the time he was learning,—learning more swiftly than any one else can learn, in the school of journalism18, where every hour brings its short cut to knowledge and worldly wisdom.
The occasional separations from Lilian, however, modified a little the charm of going away. These orders to go out of town had a habit of coming at the most[146] undesirable19 moments, generally upsetting any plans they had made together for spending an enjoyable evening somewhere.
"When we are married," said Humphrey, on the eve of a departure for Canterbury to describe the visit of a party of priests from France and Italy who were making a pilgrimage to the Cathedral, "when we are married, you shall come away with me. It's not bad fun, if the job isn't hard."
"I wish you didn't have to go away so often," she pouted20.
There was a hint of conflict, but Humphrey was too blind to see it. He only wished he had to go away more often, for the measure of his success on The Day was in proportion to the frequency of special work they gave to him. "All will be well when we are married," he said, comforting her.
His love-story wove in and out of his daily work. The date of their marriage had not yet been fixed21, because Ferrol was away somewhere in the south of France, and that business of the extra pound a week on his salary could not, of course, be settled until Ferrol came back. It seemed, too, that Lilian was in no hurry to be married; she loved these days of his wooing to linger, with their idyllic22 moments, and rapturous embraces, and the wistfulness of all too insufficient23 kisses.
For the period of engagement was to them a period of licensed24 kissing. Nor was it always possible to meet beneath the moon. Humphrey grew cunningly expert in finding places where they could kiss in broad daylight. There was an Italian restaurant in the Strand25 (now pulled down for improvement), which had an upstairs dining-room where nobody but themselves ever seemed to go, and then there was the National Gallery, surprisingly empty, where the screens holding the etchings gave[147] them their desired privacy, and on Saturday afternoon they went in the upper circles of theatres, sometimes, on purpose not to see the play, but to sit in the deserted26 lounges during the acting27, and enjoy each other's company. Their love-affair was tangled28 by circumstance; scamped and impeded—they made the best of it, and lived many hours of happiness.
And then, one day, when he least expected it, she said: "I suppose you ought to come down and see mother."
Humphrey went out to Battersea to the home of his betrothed29. The circumstances of his visit were not happy. It was raining, and there is no city in the world so miserable30 as London when it rains. The house was in a rather dreary31 side-street, a long distance from Battersea Park, a mere32 unit in the army of similar houses, that were joined to one another in a straight row, fronted by railings that had once been newly painted, but were now grimed and blackened. These houses appalled33 one: they were absolutely devoid34 of any kind of beauty, never could they have been deemed beautiful by their architect. They were as flat-fronted and as hideously35 symmetrical as a doll's-house; nor, apparently36, did the people who dwelt in them take any pains to lessen37 the hideousness38 of their exteriors39: ghastly curtains were at every window, curtains of mid-Victorian ugliness, leaving a cone-shaped vacancy40 bounded by lace. In the windows of the lower floors one caught a glimpse of a table, with a vase on it, and dried grass in the vase, and behind the glass panes41 above the front doors there was, in house after house, as Humphrey walked down the street, a trumpery42 piece of crockery or some worthless china statuette, or the blue vase of the front window, with more grass in it, or a worse abomination in the shape of a circular fan of coloured paper.
Number twenty-three, to be sure, where Lilian lived,[148] was, as far as the outside view was concerned, different from the other houses, in that there were real flowers in the window, instead of dried grass. Humphrey felt wet and miserable when he reached it; the rain had dripped through a hole in his umbrella, and had soaked the shoulder of his coat. He went up the steps and pulled the bell. He waited a little while, and happening to glance over the railings into the area, he saw a girl of rather untidy appearance look up at him, and quickly vanish, as if she had been detected in something that she had been forbidden to do. The girl, he noticed, had the same features, on a smaller scale, as Lilian: he supposed she was Florence. Then he heard footsteps in the passage, and through the ground-glass panels of the door he could see a vague form approaching. The next moment all memory of ugliness and squalor and the dismal43 day departed from him, as Lilian, the embodiment of all the beautiful in his life, stood before him, smiling a welcome. How she seemed to change her personality with every fresh environment in which they met! She was the same Lilian, yet vaguely44 a different one here, with her brown hair done just as charmingly yet not in the same way as she did it when they went to theatres in the evening. She wore a white muslin blouse, without a collar, and round her neck was a thin gold chain necklace which he had given her. Though he did not realize it at the time, his joy in her was purely45 physical; the mere sight of her bared neck and throat and the warm softness of her body was sufficient to make him believe that he loved her as he could never love anybody else; he sought no further than the surface; she was pretty, and she was agreeable to be his wife. He did not stop to think of anything else.
"So it's really you!" she said, with a laugh.
As though she had not been expecting him!
He murmured something about the weather as he[149] shook his dripping umbrella. She could invest commonplaces, courtesy phrases, with reality. Her eyes were tender as she said, "You poor thing." It was really fine to have some one so interested in your welfare that her eyes could show pity over a few rain-spots.
"You must come in and dry yourself over the fire. We had a fire because it is so wet."
She closed the door. He took off his coat and hat, and suddenly he caught her silently to him (her eyes spoke46 of caution, and looked towards the door, leading from the passage), and they kissed hurriedly and passionately47. She disengaged herself, and began to talk about trivialities in a high tone. "I have not told any one yet," she whispered. "It is still a secret—so you needn't be afraid of mother." She led the way into the room. Somebody was sitting on the sofa, against the light.
"Mother," said Lilian, "this is Mr Quain."
"Oh," said Mrs Filmer, rising and coming forward to shake hands with him, "how do you do?"
Humphrey sat down in a gloomy, black horsehair chair by Mrs Filmer, who returned to a sofa that belonged to the same family. They began to talk. It was plain that Lilian's mother had been coached by her. She seemed to pay him a deference48 altogether disproportionate to the occasion, if he were to be considered as a mere casual visitor, a friend of Lilian. She was a faded woman of fifty years or so, the personification of the room itself, for everything within those four walls was irrevocably lost and faded—the photographs in their ugly frames were yellow and old-fashioned; the pictures on the walls, chiefly engravings of thirty years ago, in bevelled frames of walnut49 wood, were spotted50 with damp; the furniture was absolutely without taste, a mixture of horsehair and mahogany, and the piano had one of those frilled red satin fronts behind a fretted51 framework. There was a[150] blue plush portière, with a fringe of pom-poms down one side of it, hanging from a brass52 rod over the door.
It was difficult for him to believe that she was Lilian's mother: that she had actually brought into the world that beautiful, supple53 being whom he loved. Had she ever been like Lilian? He could trace no resemblance to her in this little thin woman who sat before him, her hands, with the skin of them warped54 and crinkled, crossed in her lap, her hair sparse55 and faded, with threads of brown showing among the grey, and the fringe of another tint56 altogether. She did not even talk as Lilian did: she was too careful of aspirates. He saw that she was altogether inferior to Lilian. She talked of nothing—nothing at all. And all the time she was talking, and he was answering her, he was aware, dimly, of Lilian's presence, somewhere in the background; he was conscious of her watching him, studying him.
The weather was terrible for the time of the year.
They wanted to move out of this house; it was too large for them.
It was so nice for Lilian to have such a comfortable office to work in.
But it was a long way to come home, when the weather was bad.
The weather was very bad to-day.
The summer, one supposed, was breaking up.
After all, it was not so very out of season.
Mr Quain must find his work very interesting.
And so on.
Tea was brought in by a girl who was Lilian on a smaller scale. "Edith, this is Mr Quain," said Lilian; and to Humphrey, "This is my sister Edith." She put the tray down, and shook hands limply. He noticed that she had precisely57 the same coloured eyes as Lilian's, but they were weaker, and she did not carry herself well. She seemed but a pale shadow of the splendid reality[151] of Lilian. Then Florence, the other sister, came into the room; she was the young girl whom Humphrey had seen over the railings as he stood on the doorstep. She was undeveloped, but her face and figure bore great promise of a beautiful womanhood. Her hair was of a reddish colour, and hung in a long plait down her back. Her face was quite unlike Lilian's: he judged that she resembled her father.
"You look dreadful, child," said Lilian, with a laugh. "Go and wash your face, little pig."
Florence made a grimace58, and tossed her pigtail. "It's freckles59," she said, hopelessly. "I've been scrubbing away for ten minutes." She looked at Humphrey appealingly, with a smile in her eyes—they all had that smile he knew so well.
"I think you're too hard on your sister, Miss Filmer," he said to Lilian, with mock gravity. (How odd the Miss Filmer sounded.) "She looks radiant. I noticed it was freckles at once." Florence went to Lilian and put her arm round her waist. They were evidently very sisterly. Edith was busy pouring out tea ("One lump or two, Mr Quain"); Mrs Filmer sat with her hands crossed in her lap looking out of the window into the garden beyond. Humphrey took a cup of tea across to her; she was too effusive60 in her thanks; begged him to sit down, and urged Florence to look after Mr Quain. Just then the front door clicked. "There's Harry," said Edith, putting down the teapot, and running to the door. A short, well-built young man appeared. His hair was the reddish colour of Florence's hair, and his face was frank and boyish. He was about nineteen years old, just the age of discrimination in ties and socks, and the flaunting61 of well-filled cigarette cases. He and Edith were apparently the greatest friends, doubtless because there was only two years' interval62 in their ages. Nevertheless, he pulled Florence's pigtail affectionately[152] and gave her a brotherly kiss; pecked Lilian on the cheek ("What a horrid63 collar you're wearing, Harry," she said, "and you simply reek64 of tobacco"), and kissed his mother on her forehead. Then Lilian introduced him to Humphrey Quain, and they shook hands and regarded each other furtively65, with a constrained66 silence.
Humphrey felt that the whole family must know of the relations between Lilian and himself, though not one of them spoke about it. But they all treated him with a certain deference, and gave him a status in the house, which invested him with a superiority that seemed to match Lilian's. For there was no doubt of her superiority in this household, now that they were all gathered together. She seemed so stalwart and broad beside them; a creature apart from them all. She did not appear to belong to them, and yet she was, indisputably, of them. They were so commonplace, and she was so rare—at least, that was what Humphrey thought. He watched her as she moved about the room bearing plates and cups, noiselessly, gracefully67; she gave him a new impression of domesticity as she wandered about in her own home without the hat that he was accustomed to see her wearing. And she gave him, furthermore, an appearance of strength and character, as though she had acquired the right to rule in this household by the might of her own toil68 which chiefly supported it. While she was in the room, it lost some of its faded quality, and when she left it to take a cup of tea and a piece of cake to Mabel, the third sister, who was an invalid69 lying, he understood, on a couch upstairs, the room became desolate70, and the most insistent71 person was the faded mother with her querulous voice.
They made him look at picture-postcard albums and photographs, and some of Florence's drawings, while Lilian was absent. Florence wanted to be a fashion artist, and though her drawings were incredibly bad and[153] scratchy, he felt it was necessary for him to say that they showed promise.... How had Lilian grown to be Lilian in these surroundings, he wondered—surroundings of such frank ugliness and shabby gentility?
He glanced out of the window which gave a view of a narrow oblong garden at the back, where a few stunted72 wallflowers struggled to live. A patch of unkempt grass ran between the high walls, and there a broken wicker-work chair faced the windows. As he looked out he saw a man stumbling over the grass towards the side door: he caught a glimpse of the soiled and frayed73 clothes, and feet clothed in down-at-the-heel slippers74, of a grey face with shrunken cheeks, and pale blue eyes that peered weakly from beneath grey wiry eyebrows75. The man came across his vision like a spectre, trailing his slippered76 feet one after another, and swaying a little as he walked. He was fascinated by the sight, and suddenly his attention was distracted by Lilian. She had come back to the room, and was standing9 at his side. Her eyes had followed his, and she knew what he had seen. "Will you have some more tea?" she said, abruptly77, touching78 him on the shoulder. He turned away hastily: his eyes met hers; they held a challenge in them, as though she were daring him to speak of the man in the garden. It was as if he had probed into a carefully hidden secret.
He knew, without being told, that this aimless, shambling man with the slippered feet was the father. He was given in a moment the explanation of this room; the mother; the invalid child; and the air of subdued79 failure that brooded over the house. He saw Lilian as a regenerating80, purifying influence, trying to lift them out of the slough81. Their eyes met, and though no word was passed between them, he understood everything.
He wished that he had not come to this house. This family depressed82 him, and made him feel afraid of Life.[154] It was an odd thought that haunted him: they would be his relations when he married Lilian.
But when, after the leave-takings, she came to the door to help him on with his coat and let him out, he realized that she was unchanged, that she was still splendid for him, and as desirable as she had always been. He felt something of a hero, because he was going to rescue her from this dreadful home of hers....
The memory of the father dogged his thoughts as he came away. He wished he had not gone to the house.
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1
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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5
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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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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entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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deserted
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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hideousness
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exteriors
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| n.外面( exterior的名词复数 )；外貌；户外景色图 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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49
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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53
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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57
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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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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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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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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regenerating
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| v.新生，再生( regenerate的现在分词 )；正反馈 | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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