O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, For one that will never be thine?
—Tennyson, Maud (1855)
It was his immediate1 intention to send Sam with a message for the Irish doctor. He phrased it to himself as he walked— “Mrs. Tranter is deeply concerned” ... “If any expense should be incurred2 in forming a search party” ... or better, “If I can be of any assistance, financial or otherwise”—such sentences floated through his head. He called to the undeaf ostler as he entered the hotel to fetch Sam out of the taproom and send him upstairs. But he no sooner entered his sitting room when he received his third shock of that event-ful day.
A note lay on the round table. It was sealed with black wax. The writing was unfamiliar4: Mr. Smithson, at the White Lion. He tore the folded sheet open. There was no heading, no signature.
I beg you to see me one last time. I will wait this afternoon and tomorrow morning. If you do not come, I shall never trouble you again.
Charles read the note twice, three times; then stared out at the dark air. He felt infuriated that she should so carelessly risk his reputation; relieved at this evidence that she was still alive; and outraged5 again at the threat implicit6 in that last sentence. Sam came into the room, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, an unsubtle hint that he had been interrupted at his supper. As his lunch had consisted of a bottle of ginger7 beer and three stale Abernethy biscuits, he may be forgiven. But he saw at a glance that his master was in no better a mood than he had been ever since leaving Winsyatt.
“Go down and find out who left me this note.”
“Yes, Mr. Charles.”
Sam left, but he had not gone six steps before Charles was at the door. “Ask whoever took it in to come up.”
“Yes, Mr. Charles.”
The master went back into his room; and there entered his mind a brief image of that ancient disaster he had found recorded in the blue lias and brought back to Ernestina—the ammonites caught in some recession of water, a micro-catastrophe of ninety million years ago. In a vivid insight, a flash of black lightning, he saw that all life was parallel: that evolution was not vertical8, ascending9 to a perfection, but horizontal. Time was the great fallacy; existence was without history, was always now, was always this being caught in the same fiendish machine. All those painted screens erected10 by man to shut out reality—history, religion, duty, social posi-tion, all were illusions, mere11 opium12 fantasies.
He turned as Sam came through the door with the same ostler Charles had just spoken to. A boy had brought the note. At ten o’clock that morning. The ostler knew the boy’s face, but not his name. No, he had not said who the sender was. Charles impatiently dismissed him; and then as impa-tiently asked Sam what he found to stare at.
“Wasn’t starin’ at nuffin’, Mr. Charles.”
“Very well. Tell them to send me up some supper. Any-thing, anything.”
“Yes, Mr. Charles.”
“And I do not want to be disturbed again. You may lay out my things now.”
Sam went into the bedroom next to the sitting room, while Charles stood at the window. As he looked down, he saw in the light from the inn windows a small boy run up the far side of the street, then cross the cobbles below his own window and go out of sight. He nearly threw up the sash and called out, so sharp was his intuition that this was the messenger again. He stood in a fever of embarrassment13. There was a long enough pause for him to begin to believe
that he was wrong. Sam appeared from the bedroom and made his way to the door out. But then there was a knock. Sam opened the door.
It was the ostler, with the idiot smile on his face of one who this time has made no mistake. In his hand was a note.
“’Twas the same boy, sir. I asked ‘un, sir. ‘E sez ‘twas the same woman as before, sir, but ‘e doan’ know ‘er name. Us all calls ‘er the—“
“Yes, yes. Give me the note.”
Sam took it and passed it to Charles, but with a certain dumb insolence14, a dry knowingness beneath his mask of manservitude. He flicked15 his thumb at the ostler and gave him a secret wink16, and the ostler withdrew. Sam himself was about to follow, but Charles called him back. He paused, searching for a sufficiently17 delicate and plausible18 phrasing.
“Sam, I have interested myself in an unfortunate woman’s case here. I wished ... that is, I still wish to keep the matter from Mrs. Tranter. You understand?”
“Perfeckly, Mr. Charles.”
“I hope to establish the person in a situation more suited ... to her abilities. Then of course I shall tell Mrs. Tranter. It is a little surprise. A little return for Mrs. Tranter’s hospitality. She is concerned for her.”
Sam had assumed a demeanor19 that Charles termed to himself “Sam the footman”; a profoundly respectful obedi-ence to his master’s behests. It was so remote from Sam’s real character that Charles was induced to flounder on.
“So—though it is not important at all—you will speak of this to no one.”
“O’ course not, Mr. Charles.” Sam looked as shocked as a curate accused of gambling20.
Charles turned away to the window, received unawares a look from Sam that gained its chief effect from a curious swift pursing of the mouth accompanied by a nod, and then opened the second note as the door closed on the servant.
Je vous ai attendu toute la journee. Je vous prie—une femme a genoux vous supplie de l’aider dans son desespoir. Je passerai la nuit en prieres pour votre venue21. Je serai des l’aube a la petite grange pres de la mer atteinte par3 le premier22 sentier a gauche23 apres la ferme.
No doubt for lack of wax, this note was unsealed, which explained why it was couched in governess French. It was written, scribbled24, in pencil, as if composed in haste at some cottage door or in the Undercliff—for Charles knew that that was where she must have fled. The boy no doubt was some poor fisherman’s child from the Cobb—a path from the Undercliff descended25 to it, obviating26 the necessity of passing through the town itself. But the folly27 of the procedure, the risk!
The French! Varguennes!
Charles crumpled28 the sheet of paper in his clenched29 hand. A distant flash of lightning announced the approach of the storm; and as he looked out of the window the first heavy, sullen30 drops splashed and streaked31 down the pane32. He won-dered where she was; and a vision of her running sodden33 through the lightning and rain momentarily distracted him from his own acute and self-directed anxiety. But it was too much! After such a day!
I am overdoing34 the exclamation35 marks. But as Charles paced up and down, thoughts, reactions, reactions to reac-tions spurted36 up angrily thus in his mind. He made himself stop at the bay window and stare out over Broad Street; and promptly37 remembered what she had said about thorn trees walking therein. He span round and clutched his temples; then went into his bedroom and peered at his face in the mirror.
But he knew only too well he was awake. He kept saying to himself, I must do something, I must act. And a kind of anger at his weakness swept over him—a wild determination to make some gesture that would show he was more than an ammonite stranded38 in a drought, that he could strike out against the dark clouds that enveloped39 him. He must talk to someone, he must lay bare his soul.
He strode back into his sitting room and pulled the little chain that hung from the gasolier, turning the pale-green flame into a white incandescence40, and then sharply tugged41 the bellcord by the door. And when the old waiter came, Charles sent him peremptorily42 off for a gill of the White Lion’s best cobbler, a velvety43 concoction44 of sherry and bran-dy that caused many a Victorian unloosing of the stays.
Not much more than five minutes later, the astonished Sam, bearing the supper tray, was halted in midstairs by the sight of his master, with somewhat flushed cheeks, striding down to meet him in his Inverness cape45. Charles halted a stair above him, lifted the cloth that covered the brown soup, the mutton and boiled potatoes, and then passed on down without a word.
“Mr. Charles?”
“Eat it yourself.”
And the master was gone—in marked contrast to Sam, who stayed where he was, his tongue thrusting out his left cheek and his eyes fiercely fixed46 on the banister beside him.
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1
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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4
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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7
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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8
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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15
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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17
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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18
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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venue
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| n.犯罪地点，审判地，管辖地，发生地点，集合地点 | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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24
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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25
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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obviating
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的现在分词 ) | |
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27
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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28
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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29
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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31
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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32
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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33
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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34
overdoing
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| v.做得过分( overdo的现在分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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35
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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36
spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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38
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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39
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
incandescence
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| n.白热，炽热；白炽 | |
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41
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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43
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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44
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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45
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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46
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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